


Lizzie's Song

by LadyLorena



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-07-29 01:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 70,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7665073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLorena/pseuds/LadyLorena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU- Alan McMichael makes the wise decision to both carry a pistol and tell the men in the village that he suspects the Sharpe's have murdered at least one person. The men who invade Allerdale Hall on a rescue mission aren't sure what to expect, but it is the jailer's silent daughter who listens best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chill

Alan McMichael arrives in the village in a snowstorm carrying only a small bag and his father's pistol. He enters the post seeking a horse, his jacket inadequate against the harsh wind and pelting snow.

"Allerdale Hall? Mister, you'd be better to stay here and ride out the storm. Nobody's going to take you up there in this weather."

"Then I'll walk, but the new Lady Sharpe is in grave danger and I cannot stand idly by. I think they mean to kill her"

The postmaster, also the liveryman stares at him, "They were here not long ago. She seemed happy. And he seemed enamoured by her- had the look of new lovers, still."

"That may be, but there's something foul afoot and you can be damned if I will sit here and allow them to harm that girl. If no one will help, I'll walk."

"Wait a moment. I'll call the boys." A young woman, long hair in a braid, her dress neat but worn, comes from behind the counter; Alan had not seen her there. She does not speak, but hands the postmaster a note. He nods, "Get Crawford and Doyle, Thane, Rook, and Sampson. Tell them to arm up to ride out- Sharpe's have gone nutters, just like we thought. And have your father ready some cells."

She nods and puts on her coat and heavy boots before heading out into the storm.

"When do we leave?"

"As soon as the men with the guns get here. What's your name, son?"

"Dr Alan McMichael."

The postmaster extends his hand, "Gerald Kittering. How do you figure the Sharpe's are going to harm the girl?"

"They've already made his first wife disappear. A Miss Pamela Upton. He hands an envelope to Gerald.

He leafs through, "This is mighty suspicious."

Two burly young men enter with rifles, "Doyle, Sampson, and Rook are on their way. Lizzie said we've probably got a rescue on our hands."

Gerald passes them the envelope, "Looks like."

A tall, slender man with pistols strapped under his coat enters and tips his hat, "Heyo, Gerry. Ezra, Nate. Ready to rescue in a word. And who is this?"

"Dr Alan McMichael."

"Aye, Dr McMichael. Thaddeus Doyle, at your service." He gives a stage bow, "Good to meet you, would be better under different circumstances. But seeing as it's not, let's get to work, eh boys?"

"We're waiting on Malachi and Roger."

"Ah, yes. Likely at the pub at this time of night. I hope Lizzie finds them in a helpful state."

"She did, as she normally would," a voice booms from the door, "Evening, all."

"Evening, Mal," Thaddeus replies.

"Everyone present?" asks the other man, small compared to his companion, but wound like a spring.

"Aye, Rog, it is. Let's ride out then, shall we?"

Alan is given a horse and they ride out into the storm.

The moment Edith catches them in bed, Thomas knows everything is about to go terribly wrong. Lucille is livid, violent, and utterly terrifying when she dashes after Edith. He does not want another death on his hands, but it is clear there will be if he cannot stop her. Just as Lucille catches Edith, the door slams open.

"Sorry to drop in without notice-" he stops, his well planned excuse useless on his lips as he watches Lucille, obviously trying to throw Edith over the ledge. He draws his pistol and aims, "Am I interrupting something?"

"Please, don't shoot!" Thomas calls, emerging from the shadows.

"Alan!" Edith cries, breaking free from Lucille. She stumbles down the stairs. Thomas runs to his sister, though Alan sees that he hesitates a moment, eyes following Edith. Lucille turns to run for the bedroom and nearly bowls over her brother.

Thomas grabs Lucille's arm, "No. Enough. This ends now."

She slaps him, "It would have ended sooner if you hadn't told her not to drink the tea!"

Edith clings to Alan as he places himself between her and the Sharpe siblings. Lucille flees to her room. Thomas follows her.

"Edith, did they kill their mother?"

"She did."

"And what of Thomas' other wife? Do you know of her?"

"Pamela Upton, London. Margaret McDermott, Edinburgh, Enola Sciotti, Milan. Lucille poisoned them with the tea. She wouldn't leave here and he needed money for the machine so they wouldn't starve."

"How do you know all this?"

"Enola told me." She erupts in a fit of coughing, doubled over, blood speckling the snow, as the door swings back open and his five companions step in.

Alan turns to them, "Upstairs, across the balcony." They hear shouting, "Best hurry."

Thomas staggers from the room, stunned, Lucille shrieking behind him. There is a knife in his shoulder. While the village men mount the stairs, guns drawn, Alan draws bits and pieces of the story out of Edith. Then he goes to the kitchen and grabs the tea tins before returning to the entry hall to see what is happening upstairs.

Malachi has Thomas by the arm, "Come now, no use resisting. We've got the guns, you see, and you don't have 'em."

"Lucille has knives. And I've been stabbed. Please, don't touch it."

"Well a shot to the head will stop her right quick, and with four of our lads in there, she's not going to stab 'em all."

Thomas shudders at the thought and turns to glance over his shoulder, "Have mercy. She is broken."

"That's up to the boys. And to her. No turning back. Come on, wagon's waiting and you'd best not keep Mr York waiting."

"Mr York?"

"Our friendly village jailer."

"Oh."

"You seem a bit dispassionate for a man headed to prison. And one who's just been stabbed."

Thomas shrugs, "I've been living in a rather grand one for most of my life."

"That doesn't explain the stabbed."

"I'm trying not to think about Lucille turning on me. Please give me a few more moments of denial."

At the base of the stairs, he diverts towards Edith, but Malachi stops him, "I don't think so. This way, son."

"Please, just one moment? I owe her an explanation."

"No, you can do that if she comes to you after you're tucked behind bars."

"But one word...she is my wife."

"And by all estimating, she was going to be your next dead one. So no."

But Edith has heard and she strides towards them, Alan at her heels, "Edith, is this wise?"

"The wisest thing I've done all year." Despite the knife in his shoulder, she slaps Thomas' face hard enough that he staggers.

Malachi catches him, "I don't think she wants your words."

"Please, Edith, I beg of you..."

"You lied to me!"

"I did."

"You poisoned me!"

"I did."

"You said you loved me!"

"I do."

Stunned, she steps back, a look of disgust on her face, "But..."

"If you wish, I will explain once there is iron safely between us."

She notices the knife, "She stabbed you."

"Yes."

"You're bleeding an awful lot."

"I'm trying not to think too much about it."

"Here, let me take a look," Alan offers.

There is a shout from the second floor and a gunshot. Thomas' face crumples. Then Thaddeus leads a parade back across the balcony, holding his arm, grimacing.

"Woman's a goddamned menace!"

Ezra follows him, walking backwards, rifle raised. Lucille has three guns on her, his from in front, Roger and Nathaniel's from behind.

"One wrong move," Roger warns, "And all three of us fire. We won't all miss."

Below, Thomas sighs, relieved that she is still alive, while Alan inspects his wound, "I'm not going to draw it out here. You'll bleed too much. When we get back to town we'll operate." He tucks Thomas' arm close to his chest, "Here, try not to move it too much. It'll keep it from tearing the muscle further. Is there something we can make a sling from?"

"My scarf. It's over there." He nods towards the hat hooks. Malachi backs towards it, unwilling to take his gun off Thomas. When he returns, Alan fashions a sling, careful not to jostle the knife.

"We need to hurry. You won't bleed out from this, but the longer we wait, the longer we risk infection."

There is a thud and the jailer's wagon is at the door, its steps dropped over the threshold. Mr York, a tall thin man dressed in black with a wide brimmed hat, opens the wagon and waits with his arms crossed, silent, for his guests.

Thomas enters without resistance. Malachi stands guard while Mr York chains him. Lucille must be prodded into the carriage. There are guns levelled at her from inside the carriage and from its barred windows as she is chained. Mr York locks the door and folds up his steps. It is not long before the carriage lurches forward, taking Thomas and Lucille away from Allerdale Hall forever. But all Thomas can think of is how horribly cold he is and how horribly cold it will likely be in jail. Even the pain shooting through his body does not bother him as much as the cold. He glances over to Lucille. It does not look like she is thinking about anything at all.

Malachi, Roger, Nathaniel, and Ezra ride alongside the wagon, but Thaddeus stays behind with Alan and Edith.

"Alright, Miss. We brought a little cart off the back of my horse. Figured you might want to bring a few things. I can't take much, but if you have a trunk or so to get you through until the storm lifts, we'll bring it."

Edith nods, "Take me up the stairs, Alan. I'll pack. I don't have much."

Her few trunks full, her writing desk emptied, she goes to the attic and shows Alan Thomas' workshop. She takes only the music box. She retrieves the wax cylinders and then takes the men to the mines to bring up Enola's trunk. While there, something disturbs the surface of one of the vats. She sends Thaddeus up with the trunk and approaches it with Alan.

"Edith? What are you doing?"

"There's something here. It moved."

"If you're talking about ghosts..."

"I've seen enough of them, Alan. Here, especially. Enola- is that you?"

A hand slowly reaches up the edge of the vat, "Edith? What do you see?"

"You don't have to come up. They're gone. I'll send someone for you. And for Pamela. And for Margaret. And for the baby. All of you." The hand slips back below the surface of the clay.

"Are you saying there are bodies down here?"

"Enola always appeared to me as the clay. And yes, she's down here. Come. She's satisfied with the arrangement. Let's find the dog and leave."

"The dog?"

"It was hers."

Up in the hall, the trunks loaded, they find Thaddeus scratching it's ears, "Cute little mongrel. He coming with us?"

"Of course."

"Good. Already told him he could. You'd best find a coat, Miss, it's might wicked out there."

"I don't want to take anything else from here."

"You don't have to. I brought a blanket," Alan offers. He helps her onto his horse and hands her the blanket. Mounting behind her, he arranges it so she will be most sheltered.

Thaddeus rides alongside them, "Ready, then?"

"Yes. I never want to see this place again."

"So how much are you going to tell us when we've warmed you and fed you?"

"Everything. At least everything I know well enough to tell."

Alan spurs the horse onward, "I'd best make my surgery quick, then."

"No. Do right by him. I'll tell you later when we are alone."

"Some things you want just for yourself and your family, eh, Miss?"

She smiles, nestling against Alan as the horses trot faster along the path carved by the jailer's wagon, "Yes. But Alan's not quite family."

"He's close enough, Miss. Nobody who isn't some sort of family would come out for you in this mess. Only sort of man who does that is the one who's her brother or her lover, whether she calls him either or not." The wind picks up and it is hard to hear anything above it, so they stop talking to concentrate on the ride.

Alan knows this will be a late night. There will be blood, yes, and likely tears, and a story he imagines will chill him even more than the winter wind.

 


	2. A Little Hell

Lizzie rides beside her father, her ear pressed to the wagon wall. There is a knot in the wood they cannot see from the inside, a knot that allows her to listen. She has used this to her advantage many times with prisoners, but these ones in particular pique her curiosity. Everyone in the village has wondered about the Sharpe children at one time or another. Their secluded childhood led them to become the subject of stories, especially among the younger people, those who would have been their classmates in the tiny village school.

Inside the jailer's wagon, Thomas can no longer stand the silence, every bump jostling his shoulder, sending a new wave of sharp, hot pain through his arm, the blood seeping down his sleeve, "Lucille...it's over."

"Don't tell them anything."

"And what good will that do? They know. The doctor, he has proof-"

"He has proof of nothing so long as you don't say anything. If you speak, you will hang. They will tear us apart and execute you."

"And what of you? What do you think they will do to you?"

"They will not execute poor, crazy Lucille."

Thomas' jaw drops, "You think they will grant you respite from the noose?"

"I will play the part. They will not hang me- they may send me back to hell, but I will live." She brushes his cheek, "Oh, Thomas, my love...I cannot protect you from yourself if you say anything. Let me take care of this."

"No. I can no longer endure this silence. And you stabbed me."

"You would condemn me?"

"I will take the blame. Say I lured them to the house. I told you to poison them. I sent their bodies to the clay."

"You would lie? No. After all I have done to protect you...Thomas, do you know what it will do to you to hang? How you will struggle?"

"I deserve it."

"No. You do not. You cannot. Even with four dead, you are blameless."

He catches her hand, "Four?"

"The baby."

"He died from his maladies. Neither of us can be blamed for that."

Her face turns from tender to cold and she looks towards the wagon door, "He was a twisted creature, too imperfect to have come from our love."

"Lucille...what did you do?"

"Nothing that would not have happened anyway."

"No...no...you did not..."

"Yes. I did. I put the poison on my teat and let him suckle or trickled it in the corner of his lips as he slept. He did not notice the bitters."

"That cough..."

"I was surprised you did not recognise it."

Thomas drops her hand and pushes himself as far away from her as he can, "You killed him."

"He would have died anyway. You saw his shape, his odd little suckle. The way he moved his limbs. He was born wrong."

"But he was my son! I thought you wanted him..."

"I wanted him _born_. I wanted him when he was an idea. But to see him... I could not think that we could have created such a monster."

"He was no monster; he was a child! My child!"

"A product of what we are." Lucille's voice is still distant, dispassionate.

"How could you?"

She reaches for him and he slaps her hand away, "Oh, Thomas...I did it for you. For us. I saw what he was doing, drawing you away, bringing you closer to Enola. Had he lived longer, it would have been even harder for you to let her go."

Hot tears sting his eyes and his voice shakes with quiet rage, "No. No more."

"You would reject me for this?"

"You murdered my son! Don't speak to me." He turns away and stares at the wall.

"Thomas, stop this. Killing has never bothered you before."

But he says nothing, hugging himself with the arm that does not hurt, his head resting against the wood fighting the urge to reach out and strangle his sister while in his head he repeats " _Yes it has_ " over and over again. But he knows that would not be something he could do, even while enraged, no matter how deserved or justified he would be in doing it.

 


	3. Some Way or Another

When they arrive in the village, Lizzie hops from the driver's seat and slides open the big jail doors so her father can back the wagon into the side of the building. There are more cells than have ever been filled, but it is sheltered and dry. Mr York is proud of the conditions in his jail. He has been careful to make sure that it is possible to separate prisoners. The cells on the outer walls, the hallway wrapped around a courtyard that cannot be accessed by the jail but yet allows in a little natural light from high windows. No prisoner can see another, the cells separated by stone walls.

Opening the doors, Mr York brings Thomas out first. There are guns aimed at him the moment he steps out. Malachi, Nathaniel, Ezra, and Roger stand guard. Mr York, though, is not afraid and he never has been. Malachi and Roger stay with the wagon, guns on Lucille, while Ezra and Nathaniel escort Thomas to the far corner.

Mr York unlocks the cell and escorts his ward to the cot, a firm hand on his good shoulder indicating he should sit. Thomas complies. Mr York removes his chains.

"Lay down, son. We'll send the doctor, and after, if you're hungry, I'll bring you some supper. Justice doesn't move too fast, but we'll take care of you while you wait for the winter assizes up in Carlisle."

Thomas nods, "Thank you, sir."

He locks up and returns to take Lucille to her cell. She stands at the door of the wagon, a statue, waiting. All four men walk with Mr York as he takes her to a cell in the farthest corner from Thomas as possible. He settles her in the cell, sits her down on the cot the same way as her brother, and unchains her. She is still as stone, but there are goosebumps on her bare shoulders.

"I'll bring supper after we remove the knife from your brother's shoulder. Lizzie will bring a blanket for you while you wait." Lucille says nothing, "Justice doesn't move too fast, but we'll do what we can to take care of you until the winter assizes in Carlisle." Still, silence. He leaves with her chains, "Come, boys. Leave her to her thoughts."

While waiting for word from the jail, Alan has made Edith comfortable in the Doyle house's spare bedroom, the lady of the house providing her soup. Alan tells Edith that she needs to flush the poisons from her body for any chance of a full recovery. He expects her to drink as much water as she can while he tends to Thaddeus and Thomas.

Mrs Doyle enters with the pitcher, "Go, tend your patient, Doctor. I'll take care of Miss Edith."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Just Rebecca, please. No need to stand on ceremony." He smiles as she settles into the chair beside Edith's bed, certain she is in good hands, "Now, my dear, what can I do to make this easier on you?" Her melodic voice lilts, her Scottish accent making her offer even more comforting.

Alan goes down the stairs to the kitchen where Thaddeus sits without his shirt, a wound in his forearm, "So. Tell me about what happened."

"You heard the shot, eh? After we went in the bedroom?" Alan nods, "So I go to get her out, herd her toward the door, as it were, and my guns are holstered. The boys have theirs raised, ready to fire. The woman's slippery. Won't stay in one place. She rushes at me, see, and I do this bit here, twisting so she doesn't just run into me. I mean to push her to the side, shoving her towards the boys. But as I do, she grabs the pistol and, quick as lightning, has it ready to fire. I raise this arm as Mal lunges forward. Ever seen a big man like that lunge? It's like there's a bull headed for you. He nails her, see, right in the shoulders as she fires. Knocks her off course. It all happened a lot faster than it sounds and there I was, bleeding, a new hole in the side of this here arm."

Alan examines the wound and cleans it, bandaging it carefully, "It isn't serious, though. Just a deep grazing, really. Keep it covered, keep it clean, and you'll heal. It'll leave quite the scar, though."

Thaddeus laughs, "Just another story for the boys, Doctor! Now, I think you have another patient?"

"Yes. One that I am not looking forward to treating."

"Well, do what you can for him. He'll answer to the law for justice, not to us. My Rebecca will take good care of your Edith."

"She's not mine. Remember, she's still Lady Sharpe."

Thaddeus shrugs, "Never meant she wasn't also yours."

Alan shakes his head, "Sorry, I don't cross that line."

"Never meant that you did. But wifely reasons aren't the only reason a girl's yours. For example- that girl, Lizzie, she's all of ours. Any one of us boys would shoot a man dead in the eye to keep her safe without a second thought...or bludgeon them into a bloody paste with bare fists, depending. She's our Lizzie. Look, Doctor, you came all this way and ran out in the middle of blinding snow for her. She's yours, some way or another."

"I get your meaning, thank you. But you'll have to excuse me- I have work to do."

As soon as he is out of the house, Thaddeus goes to check on Edith and passes Rebecca in the hall on his way, "She wants more soup."

"Good! Glad to hear she's eating."

"And you?"

"I'll mend. You're right, by the way. He loves her."

"Some way or another?"

"Aye, some way or another."

 


	4. Life in a Box

Alan meets Mr York in his house attached to the jail. The four lawmen sit cleaning their guns around a large table while Lizzie cooks supper for the inmates.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

"'Evening, Doctor," Malachi responds, "How's Thad?"

"Well. His wounds aren't too deep and will heal easily with clean bandages and good care."

"And Miss Edith?"

"Resting in the care of Mrs Doyle."

"She'll be right as rain, then. Mrs Doyle's something of a miracle worker. In the old days, she'd have been a village witch."

Ezra laughs, "In the old days, her foremothers were the village witches! One of 'em was even burned. Rebecca's carrying on the family tradition. Good woman, good hands."

Mr York interrupts, "Doctor, you'd best get to your surgery before Lizzie finishes cooking. I'd like his supper to be warm when she gets it to him."

"Are you certain it is a good idea for her to deliver it?"

"She knows how to stay safe. Prisoners are behind bars and she doesn't need to unlock the cells to deliver food."

"Pardon me, sir, if it seems impolite to push this matter, but how many men has she been around who have killed three women and attempted to kill a fourth?"

"None. But she's been around Mary McCreedy-"

"Oh, she was a bad one," Ezra interjects.

"-who drowned four kids and slit her husband's throat while he slept."

"And don't forget William Scott!" adds Nathaniel.

"Aye, Mr Scott beat his daughter to death," Malachi clarifies.

Roger slaps the table, "And don't forget Old Bert, who nailed cats to the church."

"Old Bert was crazy, that's true, but he talked of doing the same and worse to the girls he saw going in with their shoulders bare in the summer," Malachi says.

"And you were never concerned for her safety?" Alan asks.

Mr York shakes his head, "Not from them or any of the others we've had here. The frightening people are the ones nobody's caught yet."

Alan has to admit, at least to himself, that this makes a fair amount of sense, "Then can you show me to my next patient?"

Mr York rises, followed by Malachi and Roger, "Right this way, Doctor. The sheriff and his man will see to it that you are well watched."

In the cell, Thomas lays quiet and still on the cot. He has not moved since he was told to lay down and wait. There are too many things in his mind for sleep and so he stares at the ceiling and searches for patterns in the stones.

He hears footsteps approach and then the key jangle in his cell door, but he still does not sit up, "And who, Mr York, have you brought to see me?"

"Just Doctor McMichael. The sheriff and his man will stand guard."

"Yes, of course."

"Your supper will be ready after the doctor is done. Lizzie's cooking. Then you'll need to get some rest. I'd imagine this has been a bit of a long day, especially with how late it is."

"Has Lucille had her supper yet?"

"No. Lizzie will bring it to you both at the same time. Don't worry, we'll take care of her, too."

Alan enters and sets up his medical equipment on a small wooden folding table. Mr York leaves, and Alan's two guards take up their posts on either side of the door, their rifles pointed to the floor, but ready for anything. Alan moves Thomas' arm and opens his shirt without speaking to his patient. Thomas stays still, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as Alan carefully inspects the wound.

"I need to remove the blade to get a better look. This will hurt."

"I have no- aaaaa!" Alan puts pressure on the wound with one hand and holds the knife up to the light for a better look with the other.

"Well the slight serration on this is going to make repairs quite a bit more difficult. I make no guarantees you won't still end up with an infection and die. This is far cry from the surgical theatre in which I learned to operate."

"Do you not work in a hospital in America?"

"No. I primarily treat eyes."

"Ah." There is a hit of worry in Thomas' voice.

"Have no fear, Mr Sharpe, I have cut open men to remove tumours and I have set bones and stitched bodies back together. I studied surgery before I chose my speciality." He puts towels under Thomas' arm and on his chest, then flushes out the wound. Thomas grips the edge of the cot and tries not to black out as Alan prods it open in order to get it as clean as possible. He tries not to shudder, but it is nearly impossible, the pain washing through his entire body, his instinct to flee nearly stronger than his will to keep from moving so the doctor can fix him.

"Please, doctor, no more...," he gasps.

"Steady, I've only a few moments to go. There. It looks clean. I'll stitch you up and bandage you next."

"How do others endure?"

"With anaesthetic. But I do not have any, nor does it seem there is any in this village. So you will have to bite this." He places a wooden stick in Thomas mouth and threads his suturing needle. Thomas cries out in pain as the needle punctures his skin, "Malachi? A hand?" He comes to the cot and holds Thomas still, a thick arm pressed across his chest, as Alan stitches.

When he has finished, Alan cleans up the blood around the wound while Thomas lays gasping and trembling. He is as gentle as he can be when he bandages the shoulder and adjusts the scarf into a tighter sling.

"You'd best keep this still. You'll thank me for it later."

"I have so many things to thank you for now."

"Oh?"

"You came for her. Thank god, you came for her. And you brought men with you. And you will soon take Edith far away from here."

"You tried to kill her."

"No. My sister tried to kill her. I was complicit, yes, but I tried to warn her. I had to be subtle and because of that, I was not obvious enough."

"I don't think she sees things quite the same way."

"I know."

"Goodnight, Mr Sharpe. Get some rest. And in the morning, I will check your wound." Alan leaves the cell, Malachi and Roger following, waiting outside the cell until Mr York returns to lock him in.

"Lizzie's just putting supper in bowls. Do you think you'll be able to eat, Mr Sharpe?"

"A little."

"Good. She'll be by in a moment." He turns to walk away, then turns back, "Just so we're as painfully clear as possible, my daughter is not to be trifled with. Keep your words kind and your mind pure about her, lest I take matters into my own hands." He leaves before Thomas can reply.

Not long after, Lizzie pushes a cart by him on her way to Lucille's cell. She slides her tray onto the carousel, unlocking the curved door so she can rotate it around, locking it again when supper available to Lucille.

Lucille glares at her with pursed lips, "Did you poison it?"

Lizzie shakes her head and mimes eating it.

"You ate it, too?"

She nods.

"Will you return for the dishes tonight?"

Again, Lizzie nods.

"Has Thomas eaten yet?"

Lizzie shakes her head and mimics sewing at her shoulder.

"And will he recover?"

Lizzie nods.

"Good."

Lizzie gives a slight bow of her head, then points to her tray and down the hall. Lucille says nothing, but tilts her head in acknowledgement. Lizzie walks away, her cart clicking on the slight gaps between each of the smooth stones in the floor.

When she gets to Thomas' cell, he is laying on his back with his arm over his eyes. She does not know if he is awake, so she is as quiet as she can be as she sets the bowl and spoon on the carousel and unlocks it to turn it into place. It squeaks a little and she flinches, adjusting her pace so the sound is more quiet.

"I'm not asleep." He very slowly sits up, gasping, his eyes squeezed shut, when he moves his shoulder.

She gestures for him to slow down.

He smiles at her, "This is...difficult." He stands and walks over to the carousel, holding his arm, "And that smells delicious. Thank you."

She bows briefly in response and returns to her cart.

He carries his bowl to the cot and tries to place it in the hand resting in the sling so he can spoon with the other, but even that is too much and he falters, spilling his soup, the bowl clattering to the floor. Frustrated, he hits his leg and then drops his face into his hand.

She approaches the cell again and taps the bars to get his attention.

"Yes?" There is a dread in his voice she does not expect.

She holds up a hand to tell him to wait, then points to herself and the door she is heading for. She then makes her fingers walk from that direction to the cell and after, mimes wiping the floor and holds out her hands in a bowl towards him.

"You will help clean and bring more soup?"

She nods, then shrugs and gestures it may be someone taller and traces a moustache on her lip.

"Your father."

She smiles and then holds up one finger to tell him to wait before disappearing with her cart. A few moments later, Mr York comes through the door pushing it. He enters the cell.

"Lizzie tells me you had a little accident."

"Yes. I didn't realise that my hand would not hold the bowl."

"Well don't worry. We've had far worse things spilled in these cells. Let me get this taken care of..." He scrubs the floor thoroughly, catching the splatter all the way across the floor. He then retrieves a set of clothes from the cart, "Let's get you cleaned up."

"I don't know how possible that will be-"

"If you let me help, it'll be plenty possible. Might still hurt your arm, but it'll be better than you struggling to do it yourself."

Thomas has never had someone help him dress, not since he has been capable of it himself, and it feels awkward and uncomfortable, but Mr York does not seem to think anything of not only giving direction, but gently assisting him in removing his clothes and redressing him.

"Do you have to help others do this often?"

"No, but I've done it enough."

"Ah."

"Mostly for those addled by too much to drink who come in hurt and soiled. You follow directions better."

"I am grateful for your assistance."

"Good. Because I'm not going to let you go hungry." He holds the bowl up, "Take your time. It's good soup. Lizzie's a wonderful cook. She calls herself the queen of soup."

Thomas hesitates to take the spoon, but the look on the other man's face assures him he is entirely serious, "You will hold it?"

"Of course."

He sips the broth and can't help but smile as it trickles, soothing and warm, down his throat, "This is quite good."

"That it is."

"I hope Lucille tries it."

"Lizzie says she asked if it was poisoned."

Thomas almost snorts his soup, "Oh did she?"

"The doctor tells me that someone's been poisoning the girl, Edith."

He sighs and sets down his spoon, "So it is time for confession?"

"No, not until the priest comes. But it seems interesting your sister would bring it up."

"She has had little kindness in her life."

"There were rumours when your father was alive of life so brutal at Allerdale Hall that the mine men wanted nothing to do with the house. They'd work, but none of them felt right about lining his purse."

"They were right to suspect something."

"Keep eating. You're going to need your strength to recover from that wound."

"What good is it to recover when I will hang?" He picks up the spoon anyway and carefully sips.

"You might as well enjoy what you can then. And it's damn fine soup."

Thomas laughs and continues his supper, "That much is certain." He quietly finishes and places the spoon back in the bowl, "Thank you, sir. For your assistance. And for clean, dry clothes."

"You're welcome."

"Sir?"

"Hmmm?"

"Are you so kind to all your prisoners?"

"If they'll let me be. Men aren't born cruel, Mr Sharpe- those that get mean are usually taught mean. I see no reason to feed that fire."

Thomas nods his acknowledgement and Mr York leaves the cell. Not long after, Lizzie passes by with blankets in her arms. She retrieves Lucille's bowl and spoon and places a blanket in the carousel. Lucille is still as a statue. She does the same for Thomas. He retrieves it quickly and huddles under it on the cot.

"Thank you, Lizzie. And goodnight."

She mocks shuddering, then wrapping a blanket close, wiping her forehead in relief. Then she mimes sleep.

"Stay warm and sleep well?"

She smiles.

"The same to you."

She returns to her father and then cleans up from cooking, placing the leftover soup in a jar and tucking it in the snow bank outside the kitchen door.

"Well, Liz, we'll see how many we have in the morning. I don't think they have anything on them, but you've seen as well as I how men will fashion a noose of their own clothing."

Lizzie nods and retrieves a book from the table before heading towards the narrow stairs.

"Goodnight. I'll be up before too late. Tomorrow we need to notify the crown we have a case for the assize. Gather our documents and all that. Let the law take its course."

She crosses herself and raises her arms in question.

"Ah. Yes. I've sent for Brother Morton. He'll be over."

She waves to him, and he waves back.

"I'll see you in the morning if you're not up when I go to tuck in."

In the cells, Lucille sits on her cot, still as stone while her brother has already fallen asleep, huddled under the heavy quilt.


	5. Confessions

In the morning, Lizzie brings oatmeal to the cells. Lucille is a statue on her cot, her blanket in a heap on the end. She does not move when the carousel spins her oatmeal to her side of the bars. Thomas is just waking, roused by the clattering of the cart, when she turns his breakfast toward him. He sits up, his brain slowly recalling just where he was and why. Lizzie gives him a little wave and returns to her father.

A little while later, Mr York ambles through the jail to check on his wards, stopping first with Lucille, retrieving her breakfast bowl on his rounds, "Today's confession day, Miss Sharpe. Brother Morton will be here. He'll start with Thomas, then you, and then tomorrow he'll come by to serve any spiritual needs, one at a time. Sheriff Rook will be with him. No funny business, miss. He'll have his rifle."

Lucille says nothing.

He leaves for Thomas' cell, "Confession day, Mr Sharpe. The way we do this, Brother Morton will start with you, then your sister, and tomorrow he'll come back to tend to your souls. Sheriff Rook will be with him. He'll have his rifle, so don't think to try anything."

"I assure you, it is over, Mr York."

"Somehow I'm not so sure I can trust your word."

"You cannot trust my sister, but I...I am relieved. My hell is over."

"Wait for the priest to say anything more."

"Do you not hear confessions of your prisoners?"

"I write. Brother Morton tends to you so you have someone's undivided attention. And Malachi makes sure nobody gets any ideas. We all sign the document to swear that it's true. Three sets of ears to make sure we serve justice as fairly as we can."

"Ah."

"You were hoping for something different?"

"I hoped perhaps you could relay my story to Edith and Dr McMichael."

"I'll see what I can do. But if they don't want to hear it, I can't make them."

"Of course."

"How is your shoulder feeling?"

"Excruciating. But only if I move."

Mr York picks up his bowl, "Rest easy- the doctor's coming to change your bandage in just a little while. Mort'll be here soon and he's starting with you."

"That is a blessing, indeed."

Mr York leaves with the bowl, wondering what his ward means.

Brother Morton arrives just after lunch. Thomas is sipping strong coffee when his cell becomes suddenly quite a bit more crowded, a chair for the Brother, Malachi at his post just inside the door, rifle in his hand, pointed to the floor. Mr York outside, the cart serving as his table, ready to write down everything Thomas says.

"Mr Sharpe. Mr York tells me you have committed the grave act of murder and there are three women no longer in this world because of you."

"And my son. Yes."

"You readily admit this? No reservations?"

"Of course."

Brother Morton is not sure whether he is dealing with an incredibly honest man or one who is entirely unphased by murder, "Do you care to elaborate?"

"It is a long story. I would prefer to start in my childhood so this makes sense."

"Go ahead." He settles in his chair. Thomas sips his coffee. And then he begins. He tells of a childhood marred by such brutal abuse that Brother Morton cannot help but cringe. Of his sister's murder of their mother and the incestuous relationship that led to it. Of years away and the way she drew him back to Allerdale Hall. Of the starving years thereafter and Lucille's plan for survival. He is disarmingly blunt about his complicity in her plan and how she poisoned Pamela and Margaret. It is only when he comes to Enola and the baby that his facade breaks and he cannot tell his story so dispassionately.

"I did not know until the carriage ride here that she killed the child as well. He would have died, yes, but it should have not been at the hands of his own mother. I loved him. And because I could not leave her, though his little lungs might have been better away from the cold and damp, he is dead."

"How did you not know?"

"He was so weak, so small...I had never had a babe in my arms before him. How was I to know what an infant's cough should sound like and when it was something dangerous?"

"And does this hurt more than killing the women did?"

"Yes. He was an innocent, fully trusting of me and of her. He could not know he sucked poison from off her breasts. She killed him while he tried to forge a bond with his mother as all infants should. The betrayal is...unfathomable. I know, what I did was wicked. But this was something different. Enola was already dying and she still cared for the child the best she could, but after him...things had to change." He continues his story, detailing how he found Edith, and how he could not bear to watch her die. The loss of his son made it harder for him to steal another man's beloved daughter, even if he was already dead. And he tells of how Edith caught them in bed and what happened after.

Once he is done, he sips his coffee and stares at the floor. He had planned, right until Brother Morton entered his cell, to lie. To take blame for everything and leave Lucille innocent. But then he had added 'and my son' to Brother Morton's statement of his victims. He knew he could not risk her being allowed to go free into the world for any reason.

He does not know that, in the adjoining cell, Edith and Alan sit listening.

Brother Morton gives him a moment of silence before asking, "And do you understand that the likely punishment for this will be death?" The question is gentle, cautious.

"Yes."

"Does this bother you?"

"Yes...and no."

"I must visit your sister next. But tomorrow we will talk further about the state of your soul and how you will prepare for death."

"I don't think I have a soul."

"I do. And I believe that yours is in a turmoil that perhaps my trade can help. You are a condemned man, Mr Sharpe- what could it hurt to perhaps trust the musings of a solitary monk?"

Thomas sighs, "Perhaps."

Brother Morton leaves and goes to see Lucille, Malachi and Mr York following. Alan and Edith slip unseen from the jail. Thomas is left alone with his thoughts.

Lucille is distant, as always, when Brother Morton begins talking to her. It is only when he asks for her confession does she say more than a few words at a time.

"Thomas needed to finance the mines. It was the only way we would not starve to death. And so he was married. We could not keep another woman in the house. I could not bear to share him. He would surely leave me if he loved her and then I would die. So I brought her tea. And she died instead. But the mines were the only way we could survive, in Allerdale Hall, so he married a Scottish woman. She could not love him. Not as I could. So she died, too. And when I found myself with child, I did not know how I would keep it and us. I did not want to see a child starve, but Thomas insisted on keeping it. It was weak, tired, and could hardly breathe when it was born. We hurried it along. It was mercy, given what the child looked like. A creature not quite human. She said she could save it. She lied. And after, when the third wife was dead, we went a little longer, the mining machine taking up more of his time and our coal. It was so cold... The fourth wife...I helped him choose a girl, but he rejected her. It was never supposed to end the way it did."

"Did he love any of his wives, or were they all married for their money?"

"He wasn't supposed to fall in love with any of them...or have relations with them. If he had only listened when I said he could never fall in love, none of this would have happened."

"Thomas tells the story differently."

"Of course he does."

"Did you kill the baby?"

She is clearly aggravated by the question, "No. Thomas did. You should have seen him with the child...he couldn't keep it. It had to die faster. He loved it."

"So you helped the process along."

"I did nothing different than anyone else in my situation would."

"And how does this all sit with your soul?"

"A soul is something I haven't the luxury of having."

"Oh?"

"I was confined to the nursery in the attic with the black moths as a child. Souls grow for those who are good enough to keep them. My father made sure I was not that person."

"Do you care to elaborate?"

"No."

"Do you have anything else to tell me?"

"No."

"And remorse?"

"Does the lion feel remorse for his kill?"

"I will return tomorrow to serve your spiritual needs. But think through the night about what you have done."

"I am a mad woman, Brother. You will not want to return."

"I return to all those destined for the noose in these cells. I cannot attend you in Carlisle, but I can do my work here."

"Carlisle?"

"Where you will be tried for murder and, if found guilty and no mercy granted, you will be hanged."

He expects some kind of reaction from her, but her face is as still as stone, "If they do not send me back to the asylum."

"I think the likelihood of that is fairly low. Prepare yourself for the harsher sentence."

"Who is to say hanging is the harsher sentence? You have not been confined to these places."

He rises and leaves the cell, Malachi following, "No, not as an inmate. But I have served many who have been there, or who ought to have been, and visited a fair few while they were imprisoned. They are not easy, no, but for those who recover, they are but brief torments and they have the choice to start new after."

She says nothing, so Mr York packs up his pages, returning to the kitchen where Lizzie is busy cooking. Malachi and Brother Morton sit at his dining table and read through his transcription.

"Miss Sharpe is dangerous- more dangerous than her brother," Brother Morton says.

"She stabbed him the day we arrested them."

"Whose version of the story about the baby do you believe?"

Lizzie comes from the kitchen and swipes the pages from in front of them, skimming both.

"Miss, are you sure you should be reading those?"

"Now, Mort, you know Lizzie's been working the prison near her whole life. My girl's more than capable of hearing the details."

She sets Thomas' confession down in front of Brother Morton and points twice to it, nodding. Then she sets down Lucille's and strikes a line across it with her finger, shaking her head.

"She says Thomas' is true, at least about the baby," Malachi says.

"How does she know?"

He looks to Lizzie, "You're going to have to explain, Liz."

She mimes driving a carriage, then pressing her ear to the wood behind her seat.

Mr York fills in, "She was listening when they were on their way here. Thomas said that was when Lucille confessed about the baby. If Lizzie verifies it, then he's telling the truth." She nods, tapping her ear, "That's what she heard."

"Well if Miss Lizzie says she heard it, I believe her," Brother Morton smiles at her, "I just wonder what else either of them are lying about."

 


	6. Souls

When Brother Morton returns to the cells, he finds Thomas sipping coffee on the cot, his blanket draped over his shoulders, "Good evening, Brother. Are you staying warm?"

"Yes, but not without a few extra layers of socks. You appear a bit chilly."

"Lizzie brought around extra socks for us this morning, but the wind is cutting and creeps through the door on the other end. I feel it when it gusts. Mr York's boilers cannot keep up."

"It's bitter out there today."

"I hope you did not have to come far in this weather."

"Mr York provided a room. His house is warm."

"I should not complain. Allerdale Hall was far worse in the winter. The Yorks do well, all things considered, keeping it warm and dry here. At least this place has a roof."

"Your house had no roof?"

"The central tower rotted away long ago."

"Oh. I have heard that it was once a grand place."

"Once. But inside it has always been harsh."

"That has also been conveyed. It seems most of the town knows of your father's temper."

"And probably his lust."

"Oh?"

"He hated women, but conquering them was something he relished. I overheard some of his fights with Mother- before he beat her silent. He would taunt her so cruelly with stories of his time in other beds."

"And did this unnerve you?"

"I was a child. Hearing my parents fight unnerved me. Terrified me, actually. Sex was...complicated. Something our parents did, but our mother not always willingly. Something our father took whenever he demanded it. Something horrible naughty children sneaked into the library to discover in books. Something young girls were never to think about lest they be beaten. And something young boys were to learn to make into a game. Looking back...everything in my childhood is unnerving at its most mild."

"And in your adulthood?"

"Unnerving is far too light a word. Disturbing. Horrifying. Disgusting. And despicable. There were moments of light, but so few..."

"You speak in the past."

"Because I believe that it will end shortly and I am in a neutral time. A state where life is no longer being lived."

"And what do you believe will happen to you after?"

"After what?"

"After death."

"Nothing. I will cease to be."

"Does this frighten you?"

Thomas shakes his head, "No. _Being_ has been far too difficult. Ending will be simple. A relief."

"Some believe in an afterlife."

"And what of me in it? Heaven would not open its doors to me, no matter how much I repented. Hell would be far too cruel after a life of torment. So I choose neither. And I do not want to wander this world, a haunting. I would rather end."

"Why do you deny the possibility of forgiveness?"

Thomas sips his coffee and thinks before choosing his words, "Because I cannot forgive myself and do not deserve to, nor do I think any benevolent god would allow what I have done. Therefore I am either a creature rejected by god and not under his watch, which is somewhat less than appealing, or I am merely a man who has lived a horrible life and my actions are my own."

"Would you consider asking god for forgiveness, just in case?"

He shrugs, "If there is nothing after, it cannot hurt. But at the same time, it seems useless to ask something I do not believe in for something I do not believe would be granted."

Brother Morton extends his hands, "If you wish, I will pray, one way or another. Being a man of the cloth, I can ask on your behalf, and then you do not need to believe anything. And if you ever choose to, consider it a letter of introduction."

Thomas sets aside his coffee and takes the monk's hands, wincing as he moves his shoulder, "My apologies, Brother. My sister stabbed me before our arrest."

"If you don't mind my saying, that wasn't a very sisterly thing to do."

"I told her I love Edith. She was not happy."

"Ah. You do realize most sisters don't stab their brothers over such things?"

"Of course. But the Sharpes were never 'most people' in any sense of the word. And I did tell you of our...well..."

There is a lull in the conversation and Brother Morton closes his eyes, "Then let us pray. Father in heaven, hear your monk's prayer. Thomas has done dark things, and they weigh heavily on his heart. May it be your will that he find peace before his death, one way or another. And if he does not, have mercy on his soul and grant him rest when he meets you. If any man deserves such grace, he does. Amen."

Thomas lets his hands fall, "Thank you, Brother. It is a kindness, if nothing else."

"My next stop will be your sister's cell. How do you think she will take such a thing?"

"Be careful. Lucille is volatile when caged."

"Malachi will be in the hall. He has agreed to allow this moment of spiritual care to be more private, but with her, he is wary."

"He is wise to be. I would advise he stay closer."

"And what of you?"

"I am relieved. I am safe. I am away from her. And henceforth, my fate is my own, even if it ends in death."

Brother Morton cannot argue with his reasoning, "I understand. May peace be with you, Mr Sharpe."

"And with you, Brother."

Once again, Thomas is alone. He sips his coffee. He loves the solitude of sipping something hot without worrying about Lucille having slipped something in it. And the conversation with the monk was strangely comforting. Even the prayer, which he is fairly certain was just words, was soothing to hear. Someone is concerned about him enough to pray with him. It is an odd feeling, this care. But he welcomes it. Care has, for so long, been something that came with risk, a price, or with loss.

Brother Morton enters Lucille's cell and finds her sitting in the cold, the blanket on the floor, "Good evening, Miss Sharpe."

"Good evening."

"While yesterday was confession day, today is a confession of a different sort. I'm here to talk about-"

"The state of my soul. You are wasting your time."

"Come now, there has to be some burden on your heart I can help relieve."

"No."

"You feel no guilt?"

"I did what I had to."

"That is not the same sentiment shared by your brother."

"My brother is a soft-hearted fool and always has been!" She lunges forward, something in her hand, and a moment later, Brother Morton is staggering sideways, clutching his ribs. She stabs him a second time in the chest.

From his cell, Thomas hears the sharp crack of a gunshot. He leaps to his feet and rushes to the bars, slamming his hand against them, shouting her name. He grabs the door and shakes it, calling for her again and again. Lizzie and Mr York run by, Lizzie's arms full of towels.

When they arrive in the cell, they find Malachi pressing the blanket over Brother Morton's wounds, Lucille's body slumped against the wall, a bleeding wound in her temple.

Mr York turns to Lizzie, "Run for the doctor."

She drops the towels and bolts out into the cold.

She pounds on the door when she arrives at the Doyle house; Thaddeus opens the door, "Why, Lizzie- you aren't dressed for this weather. What's the matter?"

She pulls her notepad from her apron and writes, "Doctor. NOW."

"Doctor McMichael!" Thaddeus calls, "Trouble's afoot!" Then he turns back to Lizzie, "What happened?"

She indicates long hair, raking her fingers from her scalp down to her waist, then a stabbing motion, before crossing herself.

Alan joins him at the door, "What happened?"

"The woman stabbed the monk. You've got work to do."

"You know, while I studied surgery, I'm an eye doctor by trade."

"Then you'd best hope she stabbed him in the eyes."

"No...actually not." He turns to Lizzie, "Is he alive?"

She nods.

"Where are his injuries?"

She points to her side and chest.

"We must move quickly. Either place could be fatal." He runs for his bag.

Rebecca comes to see what the hubbub is about, "Lizzie, you'll catch your death out there without a coat. Here, use this." She drapes a cloak around the girl's shoulders and Lizzie smiles in appreciation, "Now, why is the doctor running off so close to supper?"

"Because Miss Sharpe has stabbed Brother Morton."

"And what has happened to Miss Sharpe as a result?"

Thaddeus looks to Lizzie. She mimes firing a rifle and then points to her head.

"She's dead?"

Lizzie nods.

Thaddeus sighs, "Perhaps it is for the best...I can't imagine both Sharpes on trial at once would have been anything but a circus."

Rebecca shakes her head and crosses herself, "God rest her." Alan returns with his coat and his bag, "And godspeed to both of you."

They disappear into the snowy evening.

Thaddeus turns to his wife, "How do you think her brother's going to take this?"

"I don't know, but I'd best go send him something." She heads to her workroom. Thaddeus knows what she is going to do- there will be incantations and herbs, a cauldron, and something burned in the fire, its fragrant smoke drifting up their chimney. Her ways are old, different, and strange, but in this village, they are also valued. Thaddeus is proud of her, but he knows this will take time and there is food to prepare for supper and a young woman to be tended to. He finds his apron and gets to work.

When Alan arrives at the jail, Mr York and Malachi have Brother Morton on his side and are trying to keep pressure on the wounds. He quickly opens his bag and begins his examination. The woman is clearly dead. There is no question there.

Thomas bangs on the bars and calls her name, desperate for news, "Mr York, has anyone told him what has happened?"

"We haven't had the chance."

"Perhaps now would be a good time. I only need one assistant."

Lizzie tugs on her father's sleeve and points to herself, then out of the cell.

"Take Mal with you. I'll stay."

They leave . Malachi checks his rifle, "I hope to hell I don't have to use this a second time, Liz. You be careful, now. Man's just lost his sister, he's bound to be...different." She nods, "Do you want to tell him or do you want me to?"

She pats her chest.

"I'm not going to give you much space. Not with what I just saw."

When the get to Thomas' cell, he is leaning against the door, "What news? Please, tell me something."

She steps close and reaches through the bars to rest a hand on his uninjured shoulder; she speaks slowly, deliberately, every word uncomfortable, her voice a croaking whisper, "She stabbed Brother Morton. She is dead. I am so sorry."

He slams his fist into the bars but she does not flinch. Malachi steps forward, rifle ready. She reaches up and takes Thomas' hand. His anger quickly gives way to grief and he sinks to the floor. She keeps his hand and sits beside him, her shoulder pressed between the bars. He hunches over, slips his hand from hers, and hugs his stomach as though he might retch. She waits while he rocks, gasping for breath. It is only when he is sobbing hard enough that it forces him to stop moving that she reaches back through and rests one hand on his back. He reaches for her other and she gives it, allowing him to hold her hand close to his chest.

Malachi watches, looking for any trick, any harm that could come to Lizzie, and sees none.

Mr York approaches, "Doctor McMichael wants to move Mort to the Doyle house. I'm going to get the carriage."

"Best not to carry him in this weather."

"Aye. Too cold. And we'd jostle him too much."

"And this?" Malachi gestures to Lizzie and Thomas.

Mr York's voice softens, "Let them be. He's not going to hurt her."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Lizzie's a smart one. Has to be. You've seen the likes of who's tried to woo her since she went silent."

"Aye, I have. Had to bring one of them here to you because of it- I almost put him six feet under."

"She's got her head about her. She'll be able to tell if she's in danger. But I don't think she will be. He's never been completely without his sister. Now he is."

Malachi takes one last look at Lizzie before he follows Mr York away, "I hope you're right, Reg."

They load Brother Morton into the carriage and deliver him to the Doyles. Rebecca has a room ready and the house smells of charred herbs. When they return, they bundle Lucille's body into a clean sheet.

"So...what do we do about her?"

Mr York shrugs, "Bury her in the churchyard, I'd think. But first we talk to her brother."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"He's her only living relative. Wise or no, it's what's right."

Mr York walks to Thomas' cell while Malachi stays with her. Thaddeus is their undertaker and he will be bringing a pine box as soon as Brother Morton is settled.

Lizzie is still sitting as close as she can beside Thomas, but he is quiet, his eyes red, his face wet with tears. His hair sticks to his cheeks. Lizzie traces patterns on his hand along the creases, a gentle form of magic she learned from Rebecca- a way to calm, a way to read fates. But she has said nothing else since she brought him the news.

Mr York crouches beside them, "Mr Sharpe...I'm sorry for your loss. But there is one more matter I have to bother you with. We need to bury her. The ground hasn't yet frozen in the churchyard. Is there anything we should say or do? Any family traditions we need to honour?"

Thomas shakes his head.

"I can chain you and allow you up to see her laid to rest."

"Would you?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. Will the monk live?"

"The doctor doesn't know. He thinks if he makes it through the night, he has a chance. But beyond that, we can't say."

"Oh."

"Son, this is going to be a rough next few weeks. You've got this to deal with, and a trial coming in Carlisle. Lizzie and I, we can only do so much for you. But we'll do our best."

"Why?"

"Because if any man deserves kindness, it's the one whose landed himself in such a state that he's in our jail."

"But I am no one to you."

"That's true, I don't know you from Adam. But you're practically still a boy...I know, you're really not. But I was grown when you were born, so that makes you one of the village kids. Just because my own girl's ten years younger doesn't mean I don't think of you as one of them."

"Father so rarely brought us here."

"He did more in your first few years. He was proud of his son, then, or of the idea of his son."

"Only the idea. He did not know me yet."

Mr York sighs, "Lizzie- take care of Mr Sharpe. I've got to find my preacher's hat so I can say a few words at the grave if Rebecca doesn't beat me to it. Thad's set the boys digging. We'll be heading out in the cold soon."

As soon as he has left, Thomas squeezes her hand, "Thank you, Lizzie."

She smiles and nods in reply. There will be time for words, written or signed, later. Now, though, he just needs a someone.

 


	7. One Sip at a Time

It is only an hour before Mr York comes to retrieve Thomas for Lucille's burial. He chains hands and feet after lending him a coat. Lizzie bundles up in her borrowed cloak and accompanies her father, Malachi following behind.

Thomas' step grows more hesitant as they near the churchyard. There is a small party beside the open grave- Ezra, Nathaniel. Mrs Doyle with a length of greenery. Thaddeus and Roger are tying up the horses. The other men help them unload the coffin from the carriage and set it next to the grave.

When Thomas is close, Thaddeus approaches him, "Mr Sharpe. My condolences. Would you like to see her before we nail the coffin shut?" Thomas takes a deep breath and nods, "Right, then, this way. The missus has a ritual she'd like to do, if it's fine with you- a bit of comfort for those of us left in this world...which means you, really, though none of us are happy to see someone dead."

Lizzie drifts behind him, her father watching, but not worried. To an outsider, this trust would seem an unwise risk, but to those men standing around the grave, Lizzie has earned this right. She has grown up in dangerous situations, handled herself well, both before losing her voice at fifteen and after. She is a fighter and there is little they think she cannot handle on her own.

At the coffin, Thomas stops, unsure of what he will see. Ezra and Nathaniel lift the lid. His breath catches in his throat. She is lovely, as she always has been, but so fragile. Her hair has been artfully arranged to hide the wound, circled around her head to form a dark halo. Her hands are folded over her stomach, a velvet rose placed under them, a thin black shroud draped over her dress to hide the blood that stained it.

Rebecca steps beside him, "A little comfort, if I may?" He nods. She has a long chain of dried herbs draped around her neck and she gently tucks it around the inside of the coffin, "From the earth you came, an innocent child of this big and beautiful universe. Back to it you go, your life cleansed by the soil you are returning to. From life to death and back to life again as you become one with the richness of dirt, the roots of the plants embracing all that you are. Welcome home, sister, may there be great rest and peace for your soul wherever it has landed." She places a spring of dried rosemary beside the rose, "For remembrance of love when it was pure and perfect, wherever you have found it, even if only now." She turns towards Thomas and pins another sprig on his jacket, "And for you as well. Make peace with what you must, and hold onto what was true." She steps back beside the wooden cross serving as her marker.

Mr York clears his throat, "Well. Let's send her home, then, shall we?"

Thaddeus nods to the others and they place the lid on the coffin, watching Thomas for any sign that they need to wait a few moments. But he does not move, staring at the snowflakes drifting down onto his sister's cold face, noting that they are not melting like they should.

Lizzie stays close as they nail the coffin shut, every strike muffled as the snow begins to fall more heavily. They lower it into the grave and Thaddeus quietly offers Thomas a shovel. He declines, dropping to his knees as they bury her. He has no idea what he will do without her, even though he has so often needed to leave her.

A gentle hand rests on his shoulder and he hears the soft rustle of Lizzie's skirts as she crouches beside him. He rests his hand over hers, the chains cold against her skin. She doesn't seem to mind.

When the grave is filled, Ezra and Nathaniel leave. Malachi disappears into the snow, ready for time at home with his family. Roger stays to escort Thomas and the Yorks back to the jail. Thaddeus is ready to go, but Rebecca is not. She places a wreath of evergreens on the grave and then kneels in front of Thomas, breaking his line of sight with Lucille's burial place.

"Look at me, for just a moment." He does. "Everything has changed. But you are still here. I know there is possibly little time left,. You will have to start new, a little everyday. But know whatever it was that brought her to where she was, it is over." She hugs him. "Be brave. I have the feeling you always have been. And don't stay too long out here. You don't want to make yourself sick."

Thaddeus smiles, "Come, Bec. Time to take your own advice and get out of the cold. You've got patients to take care of at home."

"Aye, and I don't need another one. Best they get inside before they catch cold."

"Same to you, love." They are gone before Thomas can think of anything to say.

"Come, Lizzie. Mr Sharpe, we need to get you back," Mr York says. She steadies him as he stands and guides him back to the jail. He glances back every few steps. When he is in his cell, Mr York brings him an extra blanket and a cup of coffee to at least use to warm his hands. Lizzie disappears into the kitchen and, before long, brings him a bowl of soup.

"No, thank you. I don't want to waste it."

She sighs, leaving the bowl on the carousel and taking a key from her apron. She unlocks the cell and brings the bowl directly beside him. She puts a little on the spoon and holds it up.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I can eat anything."

She sets the spoon down and holds her fingers less than an inch apart.

"No, not even a little."

She sighs, then spoons only the broth and brings it to his lips, "Try."

He sips and she waits a moment until he nods and she sets the coffee aside and hands him the bowl, her hand under his to keep him from dropping it. She holds up one finger.

"One sip at a time?"

She nods with a little smile.

"I suppose I have to keep my strength up for court." He takes another sip, then finally looks at Lizzie, "You are a bright and kind woman. How is it you cannot speak?"

She takes out her notepad and writes with it balanced on her knee, " _I got sick. The cough destroyed my voice and it hurts to use what little is left. But I did not lose my thoughts. I am still here, even though many have assumed I am not._ "

"Ah. Why are you not afraid of me?"

" _Because I don't choose to be. There are so many better things to be than afraid._ "

He sips his soup, thinking, "We killed three women. And the baby. And yet you accompany me to her grave as though she were worthy of such a burial. What sort of place is it that does this? What sort of people?"

" _Firstly,_ _she_ _killed the child. I heard in the carriage.- the distinction is important to your heart. But we are the sort who hold you responsible, who do not seek to excuse your actions, but who at least understand that neither of you were given the chance of the same lives and choices we have had. You are both humans- you deserve dignity and kindness no matter what you have done."_

"What does that mean?"

" _It means we see you as people, not as your worst or most desperate moments."_

"Have I stumbled on a town of saints?"

She laughs, " _No, not saints. Just people. People who have lived in the shadow of the Sharpe mines and seen the cruelty of your father. The lust. The greed. Who heard the screams from the mine the day of the accident twenty years ago and experienced his callousness."_

"But your father said you were near 20 yourself."

She nods, " _Aye, yes- I was too small to remember it. I write poetically._ "

"Ah. Of course." He is quiet, his gaze somewhere off beyond the walls of the cell. She waits. He sips his soup. She rests his hand against his knee, the bowl steady in it, ready to leave him to his supper. "Please...wait? Just a little while?"

She sits and nods.

"Thank you. I...I have a lot on my mind."

She pats her chest then taps her head.

"I don't follow."

She pats her chest again and mouths, "I" before tapping her head.

"I don't understand."

She points to him.

"I'm still confused."

"I understand," she says, tapping her head. "Know. Understand. Think."

"Ah. You understand my heart is heavy."

Another nod.

"Ah. Er...I'm not sure what to say."

She presses a finger to her lips, then points to his bowl and mimes dipping a spoon into a bowl, then sipping from it.

"Silence would not be awkward?"

She shakes her head and touches her throat, then shrugs. It is no bother. She is used to silence.

He finishes his soup without another word, then his coffee. When he is done, she gathers his dishes and sets them on the carousel. She motions for him to get ready for bed. He kicks off his shoes and curls on his side on the cot. She tucks the blanket around him and waves goodnight. He smiles his thanks and she locks him in, returning to her father.

 


	8. Routine

Over the following few weeks, life in the jail falls into a pattern. Lizzie brings breakfast and a basin so Thomas can bathe, as well as a fresh set of clothes. Mr York comes through an hour later to retrieve the dishes, the washbasin, and exchange the chamber pot. He also brings news of Brother Morton's slow recovery. Lizzie brings lunch and checks to see if he needs a new book. He is on his own for the hours between lunch and dinner. She brings his supper and stays in his cell for a little while as he eats. Mr York comes through to check the candles in the hall and offer an extra blanket in the evening. Once he believes Thomas is not a threat, he also brings him his own candle so he can read a little later into the night.

It is only when Lizzie breaks the pattern that Thomas realises they have it. She comes with supper early and cannot stay, so she does not enter the cell. She is dressed differently- her skirt shimmers a little in the low light, the silk taffeta rustling with every step. Her blouse is crisp and trimmed in lace, her hair curled.

"Lizzie, you look lovely this evening. What is the occasion?"

She takes up the decorative notebook and pencil attached to the chatelaine on her skirt, " _It is Christmas Eve and I have a party to attend._ "

"Is it? I have lost track of the days."

She nods.

"Well. I hope you have a lovely evening."

" _I hope you enjoy your supper. Father will be around before bed._ "

She rustles away and he realises just how much he has enjoyed having her company as he takes his supper these past few weeks. He places his dish on the carousel and settles in with his book for the long, quiet evening.

A few hours later, Mr York ambles by, "Good evening, Mr Sharpe."

"And yourself, Mr York. Lizzie told me it is Christmas Eve?"

"Aye, it is. Mind if I come in?"

Thomas shakes his head and Mr York unlocks the door, "Do you celebrate any special way?"

"Lizzie goes to a party at the Rook house every year. When I don't have anyone here, I do, too. But that's not most years, so I have my own little rituals."

"Oh?"

"Candles in the windows. And I bake this." He hands Thomas a plate with a napkin draped over it.

Thomas takes the gift and lifts the napkin, "Fresh bread."

"Yep. Every year. Butter there was just made yesterday, too. Try it. I've already had a piece."

Thomas has never liked bread, particularly, at least not the heavy loaf Lucille made. But he lifts this, not wanting to offend his host (as he has come to consider Mr York) and it is different. Lighter. Fluffy. He tastes it and it melts in his mouth, warm, and a delight.

"I have never tasted bread like this. In our travels, I avoided it, and Lucille's bread could have been used as a doorstop."

Mr York smiles, "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve to make it this way. Learned from Rebecca. She makes magic in the kitchen, too."

"My father said women like her were the downfall of all men, the destruction of society. They do not know their place."

"I think that's a load of hogwash, son."

Thomas smiles, "As do I. It is the same type of woman my sister could have been, had bitterness and fear not been so driven into her."

"How are you faring without her?"

"My heart hurts for what she could have been. I tried to convince her to leave, to find another city, another life. I asked if we could just disappear, leave Allerdale Hall. Find a place in America, perhaps. End the poisonings, ask to return home with Edith, start everything new. But she said no. She said someone would find out and then we would be ruined again and I would hang. I wanted to leave her so many times, but I could never bring myself to abandon her."

"Why not?"

"Because she was the only family I had. She took beatings for me, soothed me when I cried, and nursed me back to health when my father nearly killed me. I know you cannot understand, but she was my entire world for so long. I owed my life to her. How could I leave her?"

Mr York sighs, "I understand. At least a little. My wife was mad. I mean that kindly, too. The doctors suggested a lobotomy to help her, but I couldn't bring myself to do it, even after she'd threatened to hurt Lizzie and I'd had to talk her down from the church tower couple of times- once with the baby. I was told to send her away. But she was the only woman I'd ever loved and the mother of my daughter. I thought I could take care of them both. I didn't even want to consider sending her to the asylum, and I wasn't sure I could pay the doctors what they would want to treat her right. So she stayed. And the night she died, I knew I should have borrowed whatever I could and made it happen. She tried to kill Lizzie and then did kill herself. Thad found the baby on his doorstep. She ran off over the moor to kill herself. Mal and I followed the trail of blood until we got to her- she'd eviscerated herself. We thought we were going to lose Lizzie, too, but Rebecca worked magic to save that little girl. And even when I thought she'd probably killed my daughter, I still couldn't bring myself to hate her, even dead."

Thomas sighs, "Does it ever get any easier?"

"Not really. It just gets different. Especially on holidays."

"We never had holidays to celebrate, so I can't relate."

"Not even birthdays?"

"Especially not birthdays."

Mr York pats Thomas' good shoulder, "Life's got a lot of changes in store for you, son."

"Yes, well the likelihood of that is somewhat reduced. The only thing that would surprise me would be discovering I wasn't going to hang."

"I can't guarantee you either way on that. The crown has let far more wicked men and women walk free while hanging far more innocent ones. I don't know how they decide. The judge makes his recommendation, of course, but beyond that...it's up to London."

"May London have mercy- though in my case, mercy may mean death."

Mr York nods, "It's not easy to come to terms with, but you've got to take responsibility for what you've done, what you've been a part of. While I don't call for hanging of any man in desperate circumstances, I don't have the power to stop it. We'll be as close as we can be up through the trial. I'll deliver you to Carlisle, stay through the sentence. And if I can, I'll visit between sentence and when the crown sends word as to whether or not you'll hang."

Thomas hesitates, "Will you...will you be there in the end if I do?"

"I'll talk to the jailer and the hangman- they're old friends. Lizzie hasn't ever asked to watch, but I've been there for a few. If you want me to, I'll stay."

"Is it...is it as bad as they say? Will I struggle at the end of the rope?"

"No. Not anymore. They changed how they hang men. They call it the 'long drop' and they die the minute the rope jerks. It's a lot better than it was. I've seen both." He studies Thomas' face, "Son...don't think too much about it yet. You haven't even been in front of the judge."

"I know. But with the time to think, I have started to wonder what I could do with a life without Lucille."

"Ah."

"I'm sorry. This is far too morose a conversation for Christmas Eve. Please, return to brighter spaces with more pleasant company."

Mr York shakes his head and smiles, "Mr Sharpe, you overestimate how I've spent some of my Christmas Eves. I'll go, but only to get more bread. Lizzie will be out late. So unless you want me to leave, I'll be back."

Thomas smiles, "No. I'd quite enjoy another slice of your bread. And the company."

 


	9. Christmas Day

Late the next morning, Thomas hears music coming from behind the door at the end of the hall. Someone is playing the piano. There is laughter, and the smell of good food cooking.

Malachi comes through the door with Mr York, "I think you're a damn sentimental fool, Reg, but if you're sure, I'll trust you."

Mr York opens Thomas' cell, "Come on, son. You deserve a proper Christmas at least once in your life."

"Excuse me?"

"You said you'd never celebrated Christmas. That's what we're doing. I'm inviting you to join us."

He hesitantly steps out of the cell; Malachi stops him before they proceed, "Mr Sharpe, Reg here may be softhearted, but I'm not going to hesitate to put you in your place if you step out of line. When he says 'enjoy yourself', I add 'remember you're still in prison for killing three women'- do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now come on."

Mr York shakes his head, "Always reminding me to stick to business, Mal. Don't worry, Mr Sharpe. You'll be fine. It's just a little party and some supper."

They pass through the door. Ezra and Nathaniel are playing cards. Lizzie is in the kitchen with an older woman. Another girl plays piano. There is a large table in the middle of the room with a festive cloth draped over it and candles in the middle.

Mr York walks Thomas around the outside of the room towards the stairs, "Before you join us, I want you to make yourself comfortable. There's a bath drawn upstairs for you. Clean clothes. Follow me, I'll take you up."

Lizzie waves to him from the kitchen and Thomas waves back, "Thank you. This is far more than I expected anyone would ever do for me."

"I said when I took you in that we'd take care of you. The more of your story I hear, the more sorry it is. You're going to have at least one right and proper Christmas." They go up the narrow stairs to a light and airy second floor, the windows along the hallway overlooking the village square. It is snowing, the flakes large and fluffy. He cannot help but stop and stare.

"Mr Sharpe?"

"Thomas, please. Just...Thomas. I don't need the reminder I am my father's son."

Mr York nods and leans on the wall, waiting, "Penny for your thoughts?"

"It's beautiful. The snow coming down, the sun glittering off the flakes when the clouds break. And the village itself- there is...life here. It is so different than Crimson Peak. The white makes everything look so pure and nothing seeps red." He pauses, "The churchyard seemed so much farther away..."

"It's not that big of a place. We stay close to one another- no sense in building farther away from your people than you need to."

"Such as all the way to Allerdale Hall."

"Never could quite make sense of why your people built way out there. I know, that's where the clay is, but the house is so remote and it takes too long to get there. It sure made it harder for the miners to get out to work. Nobody liked getting up before dawn to travel to the clay fields, or getting home after dark. Your father worked men hard."

"I know. He was a brutal man."

"I remember your confession. Brutality didn't end in the clay mines."

"No, it started at home."

Mr York gestures to the bathroom, "I try to be a fair man. You don't get much in the way of comfort in the jail, but your needs are met. But today's a holiday. So here's your bath. Rest. Relax. And enjoy it. Really enjoy it. Nobody's going to tell you you're taking too long or try to make you come down before the water's cold. There's a good hour before supper's ready. We'll be ready for you when you're ready for us." He pauses, "And because Mal would insist, I'm going to remind you that I'm putting a lot of faith in you as my guest. I expect that you remember that and don't try anything stupid."

Thomas smiles and nods as Mr York opens the door for him. He hears his footsteps go down the stairs as he surveys the large bathroom. Toilet, sink, dressing table. A free-standing mirror. A large soaking tub. A steaming coffee pot and mug on a little end table pushed up beside the tub- there is a note on it in Lizzy's handwriting telling him "enjoy!" A fresh set of clothes neatly folded on the dressing table. He undresses and sets his laundry in a folded pile on the floor. He slips into the bath. The water is perfect. Just a little on the hot side, enough to scald away the stiffness from the cool stone of the jail. He eases himself back, reclining against the porcelain.

Bathtubs are something he has, for years, hated. The one in Allerdale Hall, especially. After he returned there with Lucille, he scrubbed that tub for hours, not because it was still dirty, but because he could not drive away the image of his mother in it, her head split open, the water coloured with blood. From then onward, he bathed quickly, never taking the time to relax. Lucille had still taken long, luxurious baths. He had never understood how.

When travelling to try to finance the mining machine, he had taken a little more time in the bath, but not enough to stop and think about the other reason they were in the city. But they had been an escape, at least, from his mother's grisly demise. He often swore her ghost was still there in the tub. It would have explained the perpetual chill in the bathroom.

Mr York's tub, however, holds none of these memories. It is just a tub. A very nice, deep tub with a swooping back to allow him to really recline, his entire body under the water. It is a luxury he has never had and, he thinks, is unlikely to ever have again. There is a little metal caddy hooked over the side. The soap, a fresh bar, smells of lavender. He wonders if Rebecca made it as he washes. It is a very fine soap- finer than some he has used in the hotels in the big cities.

He washes his body, his face, his hair. And then he rests in the water, sipping the coffee, the lavender turning off his mind. He starts to slip into sleep more than once and that, he decides, means it is time to get out of the water. It is starting to turn a little cool, anyway. The towel folded on the dressing table is soft and he takes his time drying himself before dressing in simple, clean clothes. They fit well and they are soft. He brushes his hair, ties it back with a ribbon from the dressing table, and joins the others downstairs.

The young lady at the piano is playing something silly and making up somewhat bawdy lyrics as she goes, much to the amusement of Ezra and Nathaniel. Malachi sits along the edge of the room near the Christmas tree, tying presents onto its branches.

The woman in the kitchen calls out an admonishment, "Victoria Marie, you watch your tongue- don't be encouragin' those boys to no adventures you can't follow through on!" But she is laughing and it is obvious this is more kidding than a serious warning. Victoria plays more enthusiastically, her performance verging on the comical, because of it.

Thomas feels a bit lost, but Mr York slips beside him and brings him to the kitchen, "You already know most of the people here, but you don't know my sister, Helga York Hale, or her daughter, Tory Hale. Helga, this is Thomas Sharpe." Helga, her apron covered in flour, her hair powdered with the same, wipes her hands on a towel and extends it.

"Pleasure, Mr Sharpe. Lizzie here's been tellin' me all about you. Seems she's taken a likin' to your company."

"She's a kind young woman, Mrs Hale. But I assure you, our acquaintance can only go so far. I am certain she has told you of the charges against me."

"Nah, she's been too good to mention 'em. Her father's done it, though, and I think it's a right shame, what with the life you've had to this point. The boys say there's a mining machine in your yard there at Allerdale Hall that's got a pretty tick to it. They've been back a few times to take a look at it. Our Ezra out there, he's got a fascination for steam. Never understood quite how it works, mind you, but from his days on the rail, he's got a special place for it in his heart. He stoked up that engine of yours and said it ran right pretty. It's a shame we might lose you to the crown. He'd love to learn it from you, you see."

Thomas is relieved how freely she talks to him, "I assure you, madam, that if I am somehow granted mercy, I will teach him everything I know. I would be grateful if he would care for my machinery and, if things go poorly for me, that he consider it his. It is relatively safe, thanks to the release valve."

"Oh, to hear you talkin' about its bits makes me happy as a lark. You boys would have been great friends in another life, I guarantee it. Maybe you will be if this one doesn't end too soon."

Lizzie smacks her aunt's arm and signs to her to stop talking.

"Oh, Lizzie, dear, you know we'd best be blunt about such things. Takes the fear out of 'em, I say."

She shakes her head and points to Thomas, then gestures to her lips and draws a question mark in the air.

"Oh fine, I'll ask. She says I'm to make sure it's not too bothersome to you to be speakin' so dark."

"It's fine. It seems inevitable. I ought to be comfortable with it." He turns to Lizzie, "But I am grateful for your consideration. Thank you."

Lizzie smiles and turns away, focussing her attention on the pie crust she has been rolling out. She is blushing and she does not want him to see.

Mr York takes the lull in the conversation to move Thomas out of the kitchen, "Come, let's leave these ladies to their baking. I've got a niece to introduce you to."

They walk to the gathering room. Ezra and Nathaniel have abandoned their card game to take turns adding lyrics to Tory's song. It has gone from bad to worse.

Helga hears what they are saying and calls from the kitchen, "Boys! You be good with my girl, you hear? I don't want to be hearin' none of that- you'd best be mindin' yourselves or I'll come out there and mind you myself! And don't you be encouragin' 'em, Miss, Tory, I'm listenin', girl."

"And with that, I'd like to interrupt your little songwriting session to introduce you to someone."

Nathaniel nods from where he is leaning on the piano, "No need, gov, we already know him."

"No, you boys already have _met_ him. There's been very little knowing. And she hasn't met him at all."

Tory turns around on the piano stool, "Yes?" Her voice is cool and a bit detached.

"Victoria, this is Mr Sharpe. Mr Sharpe, this is my niece, Miss Hale."

She nods, polite, but not friendly, "Mr Sharpe. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"And I yours, miss." He maintains the formal distance she has set with her tone.

"If you'll excuse me, I'd like to return to songwriting with my intended." She smiles at Ezra and he beams back.

"Of course, I did not mean to intrude." He steps back and sits down at the card table with Nathaniel. Mr York drifts back to the kitchen to see if there is anything he can do to hurry supper along.

Nathaniel leans towards him, his voice lowered, "Sorry about that. Vic knows about the charges and isn't exactly keen. Her mum doesn't care, and I don't think Ez does, either. I'm a little wary, but if Mr York thinks it's fine for you to be up for Christmas, I trust him."

"Thank you."

"You haven't had a whole lot of friends, Mr Sharpe, have you? You seem amazed any of us would bother with you."

"No, I haven't."

"Well you've managed to catch Lizzie's eye. I think she might be sweet on you."

"Ah. Well I have no intention of pursuing any sort of friendships beyond acquaintance. If I am to hang, I do not want to leave anyone behind who might grieve too deeply."

"That's a bit morbid, mate."

"Yes, it is."

"See here, we're about the same age. I've travelled a bit- visited a friend in Australia. Seen a few things that have made my hairs all stand on end. And nearly died a few times, but don't tell Mum Hale that. She'd never let us out of the house."

"She is your mother?"

"No, I don't have one. Ez doesn't, either. But she's looked out for us for a while, long before Ez made Miss Tory his fiancée. She's a good woman. Likely she'd take you in, too, if you weren't in jail."

"Ah, well, that does put a bit of a hitch in my social engagements, now, doesn't it?"

Nathaniel laughs, "It does, it does. But you've got today, right? That's better than nothing at all!"

There is a clanging from the kitchen as Helga strikes a stockpot with a ladle, an improvised dinner bell, "Hear ye, hear ye, slackers, sinners, and saints! It's time for Christmas dinner, so get your sorry arses to the table."

Lizzie begins the parade of dishes from the kitchen as her father finishes with the place settings. Helga bustles out after her, placing trivets and hot pads, bringing out serving spoons, and generally fussing over everything. Lizzie and Mr York set the spread while Helga serves water and wine.

When her tasks in the kitchen are done, Lizzie tosses her apron over a chair in the kitchen and sits beside Thomas. In this light, her hair is more red than gold, and her eyes a little brighter blue streaked with olive. Thomas has a flash of regret that he has only just met her, that they did not abandon Allerdale Hall and seek work in the village.

After they are all settled, her father asks everyone to join hands for grace. It is sung, a few short lines of thanksgiving, but entirely new to Thomas. Her hand lingers after they sing the 'amen' and she pulls it quickly away when she realises that she has let it stay just a moment longer than she should.

The food is rich and warm and all of it was prepared with care by hands around the table. Ezra shot and plucked the duck. Nathaniel raised and butchered the hog. The milk and cheese comes from Helga's goats. There are pickled things and preserves from the Rook family pantry and potatoes from their cellar.

The supper conversation is lively, stories told of adventures hunting duck, hunting deer. A dog that ran afoul of something smelly. The Rook children's decision to try to harvest potatoes using only spoons. And, of course, Victoria and Ezra's wedding plans. Thomas says little, listening to the stories of life. Life that seems so very strange and different to him, like nothing he has ever experienced. Malachi has a wife and children that are visiting her sister, a sister who does not approve of him and he avoids to maintain peace. Thaddeus and Rebecca are hosting a Christmas supper for their patients. Roger is visiting his mother in London with all ten of his siblings. Mr York has only one sibling, and she sits beside him, laughing loudly with Malachi at the slightly bawdy stories that begin as they transition from full plates to sipping coffee and waiting for their supper to settle enough to bring out the pies. Thomas considers that the wine might have loosened her tongue, but sees only water in her glass. Helga is boisterous by nature.

After desert, there are gifts to be opened and carols to sing, but Thomas, feeling very overwhelmed, asks to return to his cell. Lizzie convinces him to stay just a little longer- long enough for Malachi to find a little something under the tree and a little something on the tree to send with him. She offers to escort him to his cell and her father hands her the key with a look.

He sits on his cot and she points beside him. He pats the cot and she sits.

"Thank your father once again, for inviting me, would you? It was a lovely party, and the food was heavenly- cooked primarily by your hands?" She nods, "Then may I be so bold as to say that the cook is the only thing more lovely than the spread she prepared?"

She beams, but also feels the colour rising in her cheeks at the compliment and looks away.

"I'm sorry. A bit too bold. And likely impolite."

She shakes her head and hands him the presents.

"For me?"

Another nod.

"Oh. Thank you."

She gently prods his arm and mimes opening one, peeking inside, and being surprised.

He takes the hint and tugs the fabric- a white handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it- off. It is a little bundle of candies, each wrapped in pretty paper. He smiles and sets them aside, his fingers lingering on the delicate embroidery. The larger gift is wrapped in fabric, but the edges are tucked strange and he cannot figure out quite how he is supposed to open it. She tugs on one corner and it slips. He continues tugging and it unfolds. It is a quilt, backed in black. The top is simple squares in autumn colours, soft and strong. He drapes it over his lap, admiring the handiwork. And in one corner, he sees the monogram, incredibly small, of LY.

"You made this?"

She nods.

"For me?"

She nods again.

"I don't know what to say. It's beautiful, Lizzie. And quite warm."

She takes the corner out of his hand and gently pulls. He lets her take it and she drapes it over his shoulders.

"You are too kind, young lady. I am sorry I have nothing for you."

She pulls her notebook from her chatelaine and writes, " _I had a lovely supper with a friend- what more could I ask from you? Thank you for coming in with us. I hope this wards off the slight chill we get here when the wind gets too strong. Father keeps it fairly warm, but the nights are hard to compete with._ "

"The quilt is beautiful. It is already helping to hold in the warmth. It is a grand gift, indeed."

Lizzie rises to return to the party and starts to write something; she stops and carefully clears her throat, "Happy Christmas, Thomas."

He smiles, "Happy Christmas, dear Lizzie."

 


	10. Edith

Thomas is incredibly gentle with his quilt, folding it carefully each day, keeping it from touching the floor. The smell of Christmas baking still lingers on it and he imagines that she pieced it together while sitting beside the oven, waiting for the spice cakes to bake. He loves that he falls asleep under the memory of cinnamon and ginger.

Alan checks on his wounds every few weeks and in mid-January, tells him there is little to do but wait for the wound to finish healing. His shoulder still aches and stiffens on the colder days. The assizes are approaching and Thomas asks Alan if there is any chance of one final conversation with Edith before he is taken to Carlisle. Alan promises to bring it up to her, but also guarantees nothing. She will make up her own mind as to whether or not she wants to speak to him.

There are two days before they travel to Carlisle when Edith comes. She is wears gold, smart and put together, just as he remembers her. Lizzie escorts her to the cell and sets up a stool outside the door. She hands a note to Thomas.

" _Malachi is next door upon her request. I thought you ought to know you have a listener, even though he will take anything you say here with him to his grave. Speak freely, he is trustworthy."_

After Lizzie has gone, Edith gestures to the note, "What did she say?"

"Malachi is next door and is trustworthy so I should speak freely."

"Does she know?"

"Her father wrote out my confession. I have no doubt she has read it. Lizzie is a bright young woman."

"She doesn't speak?"

"No."

"But she works the jail?"

"Every day. She brings meals, blankets, when needed, changes of clothes...she is dedicated to her work."

"And to you?"

"No. Nothing of that sort. She did her job for Lucille, too. And from what her father has told me, she has done this for every person who has come through here since before her voice left her. It is her work and she is quite proud of it."

"Ah." The conversation is awkward enough, but the pause makes it even more uncomfortable, "I've asked my lawyer to file divorce papers."

Thomas sighs, his heart sinking, even though he has known this likely, "I understand."

"You tried to kill me."

"I don't suppose telling you I deeply regret it makes any difference?"

"Not really. But it at least makes you still seem human."

"I'm sorry, Edith. For everything."

"You said you loved me."

"Love, not loved, but yes."

"Even now?"

"You were light in the darkness of Allerdale Hall."

"That's not why you married me."

"I married you because I _wanted_ to. I hoped I had brought home someone clever enough to survive. I hoped that with the machine running, Lucille would have mercy. But I was mistaken."

"What you did cannot be forgiven. At least not by me. I heard your confession. I was sitting in the cell next door. And I understand why everything went so wrong, even if you both could have done so many things differently and avoided this tragedy all together. But that's no excuse. I'm set to testify against you in Carlisle."

"I had assumed you would."

"After, I'm going to return to America with Alan. He has developed a fascination for folk medicine and its efficacy thanks to Mrs Doyle. I think he will be committing himself to his practice and this new study. He's decided also to further explore ghosts in photography thanks to my experiences."

"I wish you both only the best. And if you decide on a future together, whether romantic or simply as close friends, I hope it is blessed."

Edith smiles for the first time since arriving, "Oh, Thomas...you had such great potential...your heart is so much bigger than you've ever allowed it to be. Your kindness is something I will miss. I wish your life had been different so your gentler side could have flourished along with your aptitude for engineering. You could have changed the world."

"Trust me, Edith, if there is one person who wishes things were different more than you do, it is I. I've a life done wrong to reflect on while I wait for the noose and nothing but a waltz and one night with you that I can say I have done right."

"It was a lovely waltz. And a perfect night. I _am_ grateful we had both. I've been trying to distance those memories from all the ones I wish I could erase. Looking back, I now see the subtle ways you tried to warn me. But why did you not just tell me? Slip a note under my pillow, something?"

"I feared her and I was terrified that once you knew, you would flee and we would hang. Which, given that I will likely hang now, seems like a ridiculous reason to risk your life. I knew there would be consequences, but I had hoped...I had hoped to flee with you, with her...perhaps in the cities, everything behind us, a new life... Childish dreams of a stupidly desperate man."

"You believed she would let you leave her bed?"

"I hoped."

She sighs as Thomas slumps, the admission of this heavy on his heart, "You were foolish in that, Baronet Sharpe...but hope is a hard habit to break, isn't it?"

"Even when hope is ridiculously out of reach and a fool's errand. I am so sorry, Edith. And were I to have the others before me, I would grovel, my face to the stones, begging you all to forgive me."

"You don't need to grovel. I think I've heard what I need to hear. You are no monster. A desperate boy trapped in a dead house, yes. And spineless, yes. But a monster? No. I cannot forgive you. Not yet. Possibly not ever. You brought me to the brink of death, destroyed any shred of innocence I had left, and have weakened my body so far that Alan does not think my lungs will ever fully recover. But maybe some day, when I am an old woman and I can look back on this time without feeling the incredible urge to strangle you, I will feel differently. But I should be going now." She rises and steps away, then stops and turns back, "Thomas?"

"Yes?"

"I hope you find your peace before you face the hangman. You should know, they found them. All four bodies. Thaddeus is out digging graves today."

"Bury the baby with Enola."

"Oh?"

"Lucille killed him. Please, tell him to have mercy. The child does not deserve to be buried with his murderer. He is an innocent and should be buried with someone who loved him."

"She killed him?"

"She confessed in the carriage on the way here. I did not know, I promise you this. I loved that child as I have loved nothing else. I did not lift a finger against him. I did not suspect she could... Just please, tell them to take care of him."

There is an urgency in Thomas' voice that tells Edith this is something she needs to honour, a deep desperation; she nods, "I will tell Rebecca."

"Does she know of Lucille and I?"

"No. But I will tell her that the child is Enola's."

"Thank you."

"Goodbye, Thomas Sharpe. I will see you in Carlisle, and then never again." She leaves and he hears Malachi exit the cell next door to follow her out, the heavy wooden door between the jail and the York home thudding closed behind them. Silence. He is left with his thoughts. And then there is a soft click and the sound of footfalls on stone.

Mr York appears with coffee, "Malachi says you might want this. Difficult conversation." He places it on the carousel and Thomas retrieves it.

"Thank you."

"She told you they found them?"

"Yes."

"And the baby?"

"Did she tell you of my request?"

"Aye. She said she had to go tell Rebecca and Thad quickly, since he's digging graves and she's doing her prayers for the dead."

"And the Brother?"

"He's still recovering, but I'm sure she'll consult him, or at least let him say a few words. Even when I have to put on my preacher's hat, we've always let Rebecca do her work. Seems to most of us that it should be good enough for any god out there. Her heart's in a loving place when she does what she does. And her foremothers have been the village witches for centuries."

"The child was never baptized. He was hardly named..."

"She blesses the dead with water she brought from the spring at Kildare years ago. She took a great jug of it. It's holy there- Saint Bridget and the goddess of the same name. If water's needed to cross over to the next world, that'll be the stuff they accept. And I'm sure she'll let Mort say a few words."

"Do you think he needs it?"

"For a man who doesn't believe in the hereafter, you're mighty worried."

"I will take chances on myself. Someone as innocent as that child...I can't risk damnation."

"I'm putting on my preacher's hat here, son, but any god who would send a baby to hell isn't a god worth keeping around. He's in Rebecca's hands. She's brought children into this world and she's held them as they've left it. Trust her, she knows what she's doing, if something needs doing at all. Me, I don't think you need any sort of ceremony to cleanse an infant. There's nothing there that's been sullied. If the god the Brother believes in is out there, your son's already in his arms. And if it's Rebecca's goddesses instead, I'm sure they've been playing with him since he got there."

Thomas nods, his eyes cast down, "Thank you for this bit of comfort, Mr York. And for the coffee. I feel a bit better."

"Do you need Lizzie to come sit with you?"

"No, I think I will be fine."

"Don't think I don't notice that she's a bit fond of you."

"I do not intend to encourage a deep friendship, sir. I do not want to tear her heart when they hang me."

"I know. She's a strong girl, though. Stronger than you know. If she sets her sights on this, I won't be able to discourage her. Right now, she says it's nothing. Just a friendship and a girlish crush that she's sure will fade. I'm not so sure it will."

"You could always remind her that I am still married to Miss Cushing."

"She knows."

"Ah. I assure you, Mr York, I have no intentions of anything with your daughter."

"I know. But that's not always the way hearts work now, is it?"

Lizzie, meanwhile, has traveled across the village with Edith and is helping Rebecca prepare the bodies. She is taking special care with the baby, his tiny corpse so very fragile. She has heard Edith's instructions from Thomas, but she, unlike Rebecca, knows who really bore the child. Giving him to Enola takes on a special significance. As she slips him into Enola's coffin wrapped in soft flannel, she lays a miniature velvet rose and a sprig of rosemary against his chest and drapes a cotton shroud over both of them.

She bends low and whispers so quietly that Rebecca cannot hear her, "Your father loves you, little one." The bodies are both ready for burial, sprinkled with the holy water of Kildare and gifted funeral herbs. She and Rebecca carefully place the lid on the coffin and survey their work. Three large coffins. Four bodies. And word sent to Thaddeus. They will soon load them onto the wagon to take them to the churchyard. Headstones will come later, in the spring, when the weather breaks. But for now, they will rest in graves marked by rough wooden crosses with plenty of peace and quiet.

 


	11. A Prelude

The night before they are to travel to Carlisle, Lizzie delivers supper and stays to eat with Thomas. He does not know what to say, so he says nothing. It is only after she has loaded the dishes onto the cart that he speaks.

"Can you stay just a little longer tonight? I may not have the company of friends ever again."

She sits beside him on the cot and he offers to share the quilt across his lap. She tugs it over to her own and slides closer to him, their arms touching. He angles a little so she has space, but she shakes her head and gently turns him back, sliding her arm around his shoulders, giving him a little hug.

"Lizzie, is this...proper?"

She leans into him and shakes her head before sitting up and taking her notebook out of her apron pocket, " _It is your last night with friends. Nothing has to be proper. Tomorrow, to Carlisle, where you will await trial in a cell alone. And then you will stand in the cage in the court and listen to your condemnation. I do not think 'proper' matters- if there are things to be said, this is the only chance to say them."_

He reads, "It will be over soon."

She turns his chin towards her and leans her forehead against his. His eyes close, as do hers. She rests one hand against his neck, her thumb gently tracing his jaw.

"Lizzie...please. Don't." He leans into her hand in spite of his protest.

His eyes still closed, he feels her lips lightly brush his before he knows the kiss is coming. She hesitates and he waits, still, unwilling to break the spell, but also unwilling to advance it. She presses her lips against his and then starts to stand, ready to leave quickly.

He catches her arm, "No. Don't go. Not yet."

She stops and writes, _"I'm sorry, but there are some things better left to actions than words. I should go. You do not need to try to come up with a response or reciprocation."_

"Lizzie, I want to make a clean break with this world. I don't want to leave any broken hearts behind. I will respectfully maintain distance, no matter what might have been in another life.

" _And what of your own heart? I will do what is right by my own. If I did nothing , I would never have the chance."_

"I will not put you through the hell of losing someone you care dearly for, nor will I allow myself to regret that I must hang. It will be too hard, Lizzie."

She sits and pauses before writing furiously fast, " _Hard? Death is not hard. Death is easy. You know where someone is when they are dead, and there can be final goodbyes, even after they have gone. You never have to wonder if someone wanders, if they still think of you, or if they have found someone else to take to bed. Death is just...death. Hard is knowing your mother tried to kill you and slit her belly on the moor (but also never letting your father know you know- and he_ _shan't know_ _, understand?) without ever being able to ask_ _why_ _she did what she did. Hard is losing your voice at fifteen. Hard is having to learn other ways to speak. Hard is having every young man who has ever had interest in you (and who you have felt something for in return) want you_ _only_ _because you would be a_ _silent_ _wife- having half a dozen courtships end when they made a comment that revealed their true nature. Hard is knowing you are valued not because you are inventive. Not because you think. Not because you can play the piano better than your cousin, though no one asks you to because you cannot also lead the singing. Hard is composing music in your head that no one will ever hear except perhaps your father. Hard is knowing the few young men you have yearned for want one thing and one thing only, and you would be a casualty of that lust. Hard is when they don't take no for an answer and Ezra and Nathaniel pry him off you, thankfully while you are yet unharmed, and drag him out to beat him close to death, stopping only because Malachi arrives to drag him to jail, every ounce of his self control employed in order to not pull the trigger and leave him in a shallow grave. Hard is bringing three meals a day to a prisoner who threatens to do unspeakable things to you before nailing you, cruciform, the door of the church, naked, because he assumes all girls are little whores. Hard is never telling your father because you fear he would never let you take care of another prisoner again after. Hard is knowing that wicked people walk among the free, unremarkable people who will land in this jail for horrifying reasons. Hard is giving up on finding love because of all this by the time you are twenty-two. Hard is keeping your emotions completely hidden so no one can use them against you. It is also knowing you must say something when you finally do feel something because there is an end date on your opportunity to do so. Everything in my life is, in one way or another, hard. Bless the boys, Ezra and Nathaniel, they try to make it easier and treat me as their younger sister. And my father, who sees what I allow him to see and trusts that I can choose my own life. And my dear aunt Helga, who is fearless and brash and a mother when I have had none, even if her daughter and I rarely get along. And Thaddeus and Rebecca, who have taken me into their home on more than one occasion when I have needed to leave my father to his work and learn something new. Her witching is also my trade, though not one I make well known. And bless Richard and Malachi, who have always been uncles, in that they are protective and trusting and have both taught me the rifleman's art, even if I am an impatient student with imprecise aim._

" _So yes, Sir Thomas, I delight in your company and I crave more of it. Yes, I kissed you and meant it- I would do so again if you would permit it, with the hopes you would reciprocate. And because of that, there is one less hard thing in my life. You know. And I can ride with Father to possibly deliver you to your death with a clear head and no questions as to whether or not I did right by my heart."_

She hands him the notebook and he reads every word, then reads it again, aghast at what she has experienced and deeply moved by her perspective and admiration. He asks for her pencil and she hands it to him.

He writes after her entry, " _Dearest Lizzie. You are so very strong. Your resilience to all you have written above is stunning. You are a bright and caring young woman and any man would be lucky to have you by his side. But it will not be me, not even as your dear friend. I cannot go to the gallows believing that I am leaving someone. I want to leave this world with no one who will bother to remember me. I am just another prisoner, just another man who has led a worthless life and thrown away anything I could have done. So please, do not take this as a reflection on you. You are a remarkable woman. Your cooking is delightful, your company exactly what I have needed in these few days. And your kindness is an inspiration- I do not deserve it and yet you give it freely, knowing what I have done. You have responded to adversity with grace and strength, the opposite to how Lucille and I responded to our lives. You will do great things in this world._

" _To have received your kindness and company as often as I have, I consider myself blessed._

" _In any other life, I would have kissed you back and made it clear that I, too, would happily let this blossom so that we could see if it would sustain us or fade."_

He closes the notebook and hands her the pencil, "Don't read it until after they have taken me to the gallows." She bows her head and he takes her hand, "Thank you, Miss Lizzie. For every moment of your time. Now please, go. I do not wish to upset you further."

She gathers his dishes and pushes the cart away, her notepad tucked under her arm. She busies herself with washing dishes and laundry to keep from thinking about the morning. And when she is done with her work, she props the door to the jail open and sits down at the piano to play the songs she hears in her head until it is dark. When it is, she closes the door and goes to bed.

Thomas lays in bed, listening to the piano, it's music strong and driven, yet overlayed with a light layer of higher melody that seems inspired, perhaps, by the ragtime music he briefly heard in America. They had passed a theatre on the way from the Buffalo docks. His sister had dragged him along, disgusted at what was being done to such an elegant instrument. He had been fascinated by the new sound. And here it appeared in Lizzie's composition. He wonders how she has heard it.

Mr York spends his evening readying the carriage. It is no short ride to Carlisle and the trip will take most of the day. When he returns from the stable, he notices the house is spotless. He checks the bedroom as he passes- Lizzie is asleep early. He knows conversation with Thomas probably upset her, but he trusts that she will tell him if there is anything they need to discuss. Lizzie has always been private, even as a child. Even before she lost her voice. She will come to him when she needs to. He tucks in early as well.

In the jail after dark, Thomas finishes his coffee and curls up under the quilt. He decides that it will stay here where it can be cared for. There is no sense in risking someone damaging, or worse, destroying it, after he is dead. He drapes an arm over his eyes to block out the last little bits of flickering lamplight and falls asleep.

 


	12. On the Road

****

Mr York rouses Thomas before dawn and escorts him to the cart. He provides a coat. It is cold. Lizzie, bundled in her cloaks and with a blanket on her lap, waits beside her father's seat.

"I should chain you, but I don't really think it's necessary. You'd be a damn fool to try to jump from the carriage."

"I have no such plans. I will go to Carlisle with grace."

He closes the door, claps the padlock shut, and takes his seat, "Ready, Lizzie?"

She nods.

"Or as ready as you'll ever be?"

She sighs and nods again.

"Then away we go." The carriage lurches forward and they are off. It will be a very long day if they do not decide to stop somewhere for the night. In the carriage, Thomas huddles on the bench and dozes on and off. In front, Lizzie does the same. She wants to be well rested for the second half of their journey when she will drive. There are risks, of course, traveling out in these remote areas. Risks involving men of ill intent and the worries of a stressed horse or a broken carriage wheel. But they are well prepared and they have taken this trip before.

Thomas rouses when the sun is shining high overhead as the carriage slows to a stop. They are nowhere near Carlisle, but the door opens and Mr York climbs in, Lizzie following with a picnic basket.

"Lunchtime, Thomas. Lizzie's packed us something. We'd eat outside, but it's a bit mucky and I don't think any of us need muddy clothes for travel." He sits on the carriage floor and Lizzie drops beside him, opening the basket to distribute lunch. Thomas joins them. She has packed her father's fluffy bread, butter, cheese, slices of cured meat, and the apples from the cold cellar. And as a treat, there is also pie, a bit battered from travel, but still delicious.

"How has the trip been up front?"

"Fine. It's cold, but there's no wind, so it's a lot better than some of the times we've made this journey. And you?"

"I've been sleeping, so it has not been poor travel."

"Lizzie has been, too. She'll be driving the second half."

"How close are we?"

"About halfway. It'll be late when we get there, but they know to look for the carriage. The jailer there stays up for us."

"Hmmm. Lunch is quite good- thank you, Lizzie."

She smiles and nods to him.

Mr York watches them and knows there is something that has been said, probably by his daughter, that has changed things between them.

He finishes eating and stands, "Well. I'm going to take a little break. Put on my mud boots and check out the terrain ahead before we risk miring horses. You two sit tight. Lizzie, you have your pistol?" She nods and pats her hip, "Good. Keep the carriage safe. If anyone you don't know approaches, shoot first. We can find out who they are later."

He steps out and leaves them to talk.

After a few moments, Thomas reaches for Lizzie's hand, "And how are you faring?"

She sighs and draws a finger down her cheeks, then puts her hands together as her pillow.

"You cried before sleep last night."

She nods, then gestures for him to carry on.

"Rather, you cried until you fell asleep?"

Another nod.

"Lizzie...I'm sorry. This is exactly what I did not want to have happen."

She points to him and tilts her head in question.

"How am I?"

She squeezes his hand.

"I have been in the mind of simply following orders and sleeping. I am trying not to think."

Lizzie moves to sit beside him. Once there, she turns to face him and pats his chest over his heart and leaves her hand resting there.

"My heart?"

She nods.

"Lizzie...no. I will not tell you what is on my heart. I am ignoring it so I have the strength to face trial."

She wraps her arms around him and squeezes tight, resting her head against his shoulder.

"I will miss you." He holds her until she sits up and turns her attention to packing up the lunch remnants. Before she stands, she kisses his cheek. Then she leaves and locks the door behind her.

Thomas hears Mr York outside the carriage, "Road's a bit muddy up ahead, but we should get through it fine. Are you ready to get moving? Is he?"

In a few moments, the carriage lurches into motion and they are once again on the road to Carlisle.

Late that night, while Mr York sleeps, Lizzie drives, the city lights within view. She slows the carriage and taps on the wall behind her.

Inside, Thomas hears the light knocking, "Yes? Lizzie, is that you?"

She taps again, twice.

"I will assume that is a yes."

Again, two taps.

"Is your father asleep?"

Two taps.

"Do you think he is listening?"

One tap.

"Lizzie, I'm sorry. I do not want to say goodbye, but this may be the last time we speak. Forgive me for your heartbreak. I know this hurts you far more than I am allowing it to hurt me, but I assure you, I will feel it as I wait alone."

Two taps.

"Is that a yes to affirm that I will feel it later?"

A single tap.

"A yes for forgiveness?"

Two taps.

"Bless you, my friend. You are an angel."

She taps once.

"You don't get to dispute that."

She taps four times.

"I have no idea what that means."

The carriage slows and he hears a man talking. Then Mr York responds, but he cannot make out with what- it sounds as though he has disembarked and is talking at a distance. His voice grows closer and they soon begin moving again. It is not long before they stop again and this time, the bustle of activity is far greater. The back of the carriage opens, but instead of Mr York, there are men with guns. He steps out without resistance.

A man meets him, "Mr Thomas Sharpe, aged 32 years, on charges of murder and conspiracy to murder." Thomas nods, "Right, this way, then." He is brought into the towering stone prison under heavy guard without seeing either Lizzie or Mr York. He takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. It is a new part of his journey, and one he has to admit he is terrified to embark on alone.

 


	13. Carlisle

Lizzie and Mr York settle into the guest rooms in the house of Bartholomew Hayes, jailer. He is a jovial man with the Yorks, but they both know that in the jail he is stern, though usually fair. He reads the confessions and then asks about the temperament of his new prisoner. Mr York describes Thomas as quiet, a studious reader, and a man who thinks often of his own guilt. Thomas has no pretenses about himself, nor does he accept excuses for his actions. Mr Hayes is relieved to know his new ward will be little trouble, so long as he keeps him occupied with books.

Thomas sits alone in the cell and wonders what will come next. It is cold, he is lonely, and he wonders if Lizzie has read his note early out of curiosity. He hopes she has not.

Mr Hayes visits him after he is brought supper. It is nothing like what he had in the village, the meat dry and leathery, the bread stale. He eats it because he knows he must eat something, but he does not want it to replace the memory of his last meal with the Yorks in the countryside.

"Reg tells me you are a quiet prisoner."

"I try to be, sir."

"Oh? You don't want to raise a ruckus, gain yourself some attention?"

"No. I learned that avoiding attention was far safer than asking for it. It was far better to remain unseen. I have never broken the habit."

"Reg told me what you did."

"Ah. Well I suppose everyone will know soon, won't they? Once it is read in the court?"

"I reckon so. Does that bother you?"

"Yes."

"Why? Don't want anyone to know what you've done?"

"No. I have little concern for myself. I will be dead soon, and what harm can their words do me then? But Lizzie will still be living and she will have to pay for my actions time and time again as the judgments of others stab her over and over."

"Lizzie? You mean Reg's daughter?"

"Yes."

"You love her?"

"No. At least not yet- who knows what will happen in the desperation facing the noose? But she is a dear friend and she cares deeply for me. I tried to keep my distance so I would leave no one behind in mourning, but in that I have failed."

"Reg spoke highly of you. Smart young man, good with your hands, built a contraption in your yard to try to mine the clay. He says you could have been an engineer."

"Perhaps."

"Why not?"

"My sister. She was...persuasive. And I could not leave her. So we starved alone."

"Until she married you off."

"Well I can't say I was entirely unwilling. I thought I would finally be able to find companionship and intimacy with a young lady. But that wasn't so."

"She stopped that, too."

"Yes."

"And you never thought to leave?"

"Does the lion not both love and resent his tamer?"

Mr Hayes nods, "I understand, young man. Look, things here aren't going to be like in the village. You'll be on your own most of the time until they want you up in the court. And if they condemn you, you'll get a guarded cell so you don't kill yourself before the Home Office makes its decision. Might get mercy, likely won't. But I've seen men who were monsters step away from this jail and back into the streets. So you can't be sure."

"Ah. I see."

"Try to get some rest, Mr Sharpe. You're going to need it. The courts start their work tomorrow."

Early in the day, Thomas is told the cases will be tried in accordance to the alphabet, so he will likely wait a day or two for his trial. He is nervous, but tries to keep his mind occupied with the old copies of the Strand that Mr Hayes sends to him. Sherlock Holmes solves cases in an improbable manner, but at least he is a distraction.

On the second day, one of the trials runs long, and before he is called, the court closes for the day. Prisoners are returned to their cells. They are brought up in groups so that they only have to break to bring more people up every few hours.

The third day begins with a fight between prisoners on the way up to the courtroom. Thomas hears someone yelling about the others not holding up his case and then come quite a few thuds and shouts of pain. It makes him even more jumpy.

When he is called, he neatens the stack of magazines on the end of his bed, allows himself chained, and then follows the bailiff out to the other prisoners. Some of them weep, others are silently despondent. Some rant and are cuffed on the side of the head to silence them. Others seethe. Thomas is one of the few who tries to stay calm. There is no need for panic. It will not stave off the inevitable.

They file into the courtroom and stand behind the barristers. The room is chatty, as though this were just another day at the races for the members of the press and public who have gathered to watch. He tries to turn around to look for Lizzie or Mr York, but the guard pushes him back to face the judge.

"No looking about, you hear? You're to respect his Honour."

Thomas does not reply.

The others in his group are tried one by one until it is early afternoon and he is very hungry. He still makes an attempt to hide his discomfort, to focus at the business at hand, but it is difficult.

His name is called, the case outlined by the barrister. Edith is called forward to testify and she does with grace and composure, never once making eye contact with him. She is always addressing the barrister or judge. Alan is sworn in and speaks only a little as to how the siblings were arrested and what evidence he had gathered to prove their crimes. And then Mr York testifies as to the contents of the confessions, swearing that he recorded them truthfully and with as much detail as he could. Lastly, Lizzie is called to testify. She looks so small in the grand room, surrounded by the high oak paneling, her flannel gown tidy and neat. Her hair has been braided around her head, an old fashioned style that makes her look like a young queen, her hairpins a crown. She is shaking a little as she steps into the witness box.

"Miss Elizabeth York, do you swear to tell the truth, so help you god?"

She nods. The judge does not look happy, but the barrister accepts her answer and begins his questioning.

"Miss York. Is it true that you were the sole witness to Lady Sharpe confessing to killing the infant?"

She nods.

"And when you heard that confession, did it seem to you that Mr Sharpe was unaware that the child had died from anything but natural causes?"

She nods.

The judge interrupts, "Miss York, you are going to have to speak in my courtroom. While Mr Davis may consider nodding an appropriate answer, I do not. Do you understand?"

She clears her throat and croaks, "Yes, sir." The sound of her cracking voice startles the judge.

The barrister continues, "Will you describe what their conversation entailed?"

Her speech is slow, deliberate, as she concentrates on choosing the phrases that will require the least speaking, "She had stabbed him. He did not want to speak to her. She wanted to lie so she would not hang. He did not." She coughs a few times. She worries about what will happen next. She knows the feeling starting low in her chest, but continues with her testimony, "She said he was blameless, even with four dead." More coughing. "And he asked-" cough, "-what she meant." Her cough is building, and as she struggles to hold it back, she rushes through, "And she said the child was too imperfect so she poisoned him." Her coughing doubles her over, her hand clutched over her mouth as she sinks, unable to hold herself up, slipping down from the bench in the witness box. Mr York rushes to her and gathers her in his arms on the steps to the box. Alan follows, telling the bailiff he is a doctor.

Thomas wants to run to her and the oldest of the guards puts a firm hand on his shoulder after he sees Thomas starting to look frantic, "Calm down, son. She's in good hands. Won't do her any good for you to get yourself dragged down to the dungeon for the rest of your own trial."

"But she's ill..."

"And her father's right with her. She's not alone. There's a doctor there, too."

"He's a good man."

The guard looks surprised, "He testified against you."

"That makes him no less a good man."

Meanwhile, Alan listens to the cough and offers what little assistance he can be to Mr York. This is not something new for Lizzie, but she has avoided it for years by simply not trying to speak.

Mr York looks to his companion as he shifts Lizzie a little so there is better support for her chest on her father's arm, "There's not much you can do. She just has to ride it out. But a glass of water would be a welcome relief."

Alan approaches the bailiff and makes the request. The judge watches everything happening and calls for a five minute recess. The guards do not escort the prisoners back to the jail for only five minutes, but instead they spread themselves along the line and keep close watch.

Thomas hates feeling helpless. It is far too familiar and reminds him of when he would watch Lucille poison the women in his life. Nothing to do, no way to stop it, not if he wanted to survive. He hadn't ever been sure she wouldn't poison him, too, if he had resisted. He hates how flimsy it all sounds now, with a little bit of time between them.

Lizzie's coughing subsides. Alan helps her to sit up and gives her the water. Her hands tremble, so he steadies the glass as she drinks. Tired, she places a hand over her heart and bows a little towards him after he takes back the glass.

"She thanks you, Doctor. But she's not going to try to say it."

"Of course. All I can prescribe for her is plenty of rest, and it seems this is familiar enough to you to make saying it redundant. But still. Rest, Lizzie. No more speaking."

The barrister approaches after Alan has returned to Edith in the gallery, "Miss...I'm sorry. I was unaware that this is what your father meant when he said you shouldn't speak."

She tilts her head toward him in acknowledgment.

"The clerk and I prepared this document instead- when we reconvene, I will ask the judge to accept your sworn written statement- the one you brought with you that details what you heard. You will sign it with the witness of this court. Can you do this?"

She nods.

"Thank you. After, you will be free to follow the doctor's advise to go rest. And again, I am truly sorry we have caused you this distress."

He hurries off. The judge bangs his gavel. Mr York helps Lizzie back to the seat in the witness box and, in front of court, she signs the statement assuring that what she recorded was what she heard. Her father quickly takes her from the courtroom to Mr Hayes' house, tucking her into bed and heading to the kitchen. There is no Mrs Hayes, but there is a Miss Gertie, a short round young woman with a skill for pies and cakes. He talks to her about a certain spiced and honeyed soup that has always helped Lizzie and asks for hot water with lemon, if she has it, and honey. There is lemon, in the form of dried zest, and she sends him with the tea in short order. Then she sets to work on the soup.

Thomas does not deny his guilt and tells his story honestly when on the stand. He is grateful that the barristers seem to want to avoid discussing his relationship with his sister, instead focusing only on the deaths of Pamela, Margaret, and Enola. They press him on the baby, and he can hardly keep his composure, his grief still intense. Accusations that he killed his child twist the knot in his chest tighter and he clasps his hands, trying to keep his temper under control. In the end, the jury does not deliberate for more than a few moments. He is guilty of murder in at least three instances, there is no question. The judge recommends hanging.

 


	14. The Condemned Cell

Lizzie and Mr York return to the village while Thomas is moved to the condemned cell. There are guards here at all times, and the cell is lit inside and out all day and all night so they can make sure he does not kill himself. He knows what happens next. The Home Secretary will decide whether or not he is to be granted mercy. Then he will have only a week to appeal the decision. After that, he will hang.

He spends his first week worrying about Lizzie, hoping she has recovered from her coughing and that she is doing well in the village. He tries not to wonder to much about what she is doing or if she thinks of him, but it is difficult and he yearns so much for the sound of her little cart clattering down the stone halls to bring food and a little companionship. He misses her smile. Her signs. How she would tap her head to ask what he was thinking or press a hand over her heart and point to him to ask how he felt. He knows thinking of her so often is dangerous and doing exactly what he told himself he would not do- he would not let himself become attached. But as she is not here and the only person it will hurt is himself, he resigns and lets himself think fondly of her.

Men come to interview him for the Home Secretary. They are there to determine if he is sane enough for hanging or if they have a madman on their hands that should, instead, be locked away in Bedlam. The interview is short, the questions they ask simple and direct. He answers the best he can. He knows he could cheat, he could play insane in the hopes that the crown would spare his life, but it does not seem to be worth the effort. And he has spent enough of his life around lies and explosively unpredictable people. There is no sense avoiding his fate, and it is likely better than being stuck in an asylum.

Thomas starts writing to the Yorks every other day. The letters are short. He asks for news about life in the village. Is everyone well? Have Ezra and Victoria set a wedding date? And are there any new inmates in the jail? And the letters that come in return answer his questions and more. They are mostly written by Mr York, but others contribute as well. One week, Rebecca responds. Another, Nathaniel. And Helga takes another week, her handwriting as big and looping as her personality. He has been waiting for a month when his first note arrives from Lizzie.

_Thomas,_

_I recovered with little difficulty from my fit in the courtroom. I hope it did not impede the trial any. I did my best to be truthful. I did not want to hurt you and I have been praying that my testimony did not damn you. I have not seen what the papers are saying about the assize cases. We do not get them here very often. For once, I am grateful that the outside world has forgotten our little village._

_I have been thinking about you often. I have hesitated writing because I did not want to say things wrong or to trip on my words and make things harder on you. I have muddled through this letter four or five times before settling on this draft. It is as careful as I can be._

_In case they hang you before I am able to write again, thank you for your kindness and your honest listening ear (or, rather, reading eyes). You are one of the first men that has not known me since childhood who has seen me as a whole person, not just as a mute potential wife._

_Sincerely,_

_Lizzie York._

The letters both soothe and hurt. He is happy that there are people willing to write to him, that Rebecca is burning holy herbs for him in her witching, and, in a strange way, that Thaddeus has volunteered to bury him when the time comes. Having seen the care they gave Lucille, this is a comfort.

But Thomas also worries, and he hates the wait, and eventually he works himself into a despondence and tries to stab himself in the stomach with his supper fork. His guards easily stop him. One takes the rest of the tableware out while he other sits down beside him.

"Eh, Mr Sharpe, what did you do that for?"

"I can't handle waiting anymore. There are people in the village writing and waiting to hear I have died from whomever it is that will bother to tell them, if anyone."

"So you thought you'd end it early so they won't be stringing along?"

"Yes."

"Come on, boy, let me see your stomach. I don't think you even scratched yourself, but I want to check."

Thomas opens his shirt and the man quickly examines his skin, "You're fine. But you wouldn't be if you'd driven that deep. Do you know what a stomach wound does to someone?"

"I assume it kills them."

"Eventually. There was this lad here- young man, younger than you. Probably just barely a man. He'd been born out in the wilds in Scotland and told us he couldn't right use a fork. He was right, he couldn't. Never was raised to know how. He'd always eaten with a knife. Someone had he bright idea to give him one- a dull one. I was the junior watchman at the time. I was asleep when I heard something- a grunt, I think. Woke up, turned around, and there he was with that thing sticking out of his belly. My partner was in the loo. I fumbled getting up, got to him after he'd managed to twist it and drive it further. We called the doctor, but he didn't seem concerned. Boy bled out over five hours. I watched the whole thing. Tried to keep him comfortable, but we couldn't do much for him. He was in a bad state. Don't do that to your family. It's not worth it."

"I haven't any family."

"Well then don't do it for whomever you're writing to back home. And don't argue that it's not home. You have people there, it's where your heart clearly rests, it's your home."

"Thank you. Might I ask your name?"

"Geoffrey. Call me Geoff. And instead of trying to kill yourself, talk to somebody next time."

Thomas nods and Geoff returns to his post, his partner back from depositing the tableware.

Thomas continues writing and receiving letters, the back and forth at least something to occupy his mind. He tries not to think too much about death. But death thinks about him and one night, Lucille appears in his cell. He is lightly dozing when her skeletal hand inches from his shoulder to his hair.

"Wake up, my love," she whispers in his ear.

He turns over, sees her face, and startles, shoving away from her, "Don't touch me, Lucille."

"Oh come now, dear brother. Surely you're not angry with me?"

He lays down and turns his back to her, "Go away."

"But I came for a reason. I miss you."

"And I do not miss you. Go."

"Yes you do. I see how you pace. You are bored."

"I am awaiting execution. I am trying to keep from thinking about death. You are not helping."

Her face and tone both sour and she clenches his shoulder, "You will regret this, Thomas. Every moment you did not listen to me. You will walk to the gallows. I will watch you. And then I will keep you." She disappears. Thomas shudders.

Geoff turns to his fellow watchman, an only slightly younger man named Ovid, "I think we've got a sleeptalker."

"Either that or he's talking to a ghost."

"I doubt that. But you never know. Stranger things have happened."

Lizzie looks for Thomas' letters every day, visiting the post with her father. Some are addressed to her, some to others, and she dutifully awaits every morning as Mr Kittering sorts the mail so she can deliver his letters to their intended recipients.

On this day, she receives a letter that concerns her. She opens it eagerly while she is still in the livery and reads it quickly.

_Lizzie,_

_I see little hope that the Crown will grant me a reprieve, and even if they do, I will be here for fifteen years alone. Being alive and living are two different things and being denied one while still the other is a cruelty I do not think I can face._

_Tell Ezra he is welcome to my machine._

_And read my letter in your notebook._

_Yours faithfully, Thomas._

She runs home and thrusts the letter in her father's hands. He reads and gives it back. She presses it over her heart and then crosses her hands over her stomach and closes her eyes as though she is dead.

"I'm afraid so, too, Lizzie. You'd better get ready to travel. I'll call on Nathaniel. Start packing, you'll drive through the night." He pauses, "What letter did he leave you?"

She opens her notebook and jots, "One he said to read only after he was dead. I haven't read it. So I can't tell you what is in it. And I don't know that I will once I do. It wasn't meant for you."

"Alright. I'll make arrangements. We're not going to lose him this way. If the Crown kills him, that's different. But this... He's not going to die alone." He leaves and she dashes upstairs to throw a few things in her travel trunk.

Mr York stops in to see Mr Kittering first, "Hey, Gerry. Do you have someone going out today?"

"Yes. He's just getting ready. Bad news?"

"Hold him for just a moment. I've got another letter I need sent."

"Urgent?"

"Lizzie thinks the letter she got's a suicide note."

"Oh. And we like Mr Sharpe to be alive, correct? Even if he's going to hang?"

"Lizzie's set her heart on him, so yes. Now can you stop the man and get me some stationary or not?"

Mr Kittering hands him paper and a pen before heading out to the horses. He writes fast, a letter to the governor, a letter to gain Lizzie access to a visit. He writes a second letter to Mr Hayes to explain the situation. He addresses envelopes, stuffs them, and leaves them on the counter with a few coins. He is leaving as Mr Kittering returns with the young postal carrier.

"Ready a carriage. The kids are going to Carlisle."

Not far down the road, Mr York knocks on the door of a little red brick house. Ezra opens the door.

"Mr York! Good to see you, sir. What brings you here to our doorstep?"

"I need someone to escort Lizzie to Carlisle as fast as possible for as long as she wants to stay there."

"Nate!" Ezra calls, "A mission for you!"

Nathaniel ambles from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, his apron damp, "Aye? Oh, Mr York. What brings you by?"

"Lizzie got a letter from Thomas. She's afraid it's a suicide note. He gives his mining machine to Ezra and asks Lizzie to read the letter he wrote her for after he was dead."

"So what's the plan, gov?"

"Would you be willing to take Lizzie to Carlisle?"

Ezra holds up a hand, "Isn't he going to be hanged? Why the fuss for a condemned man?"

"Because I'd rather he be killed quick and painlessly by the Crown with people he knows beside him that alone and slowly in a cell when he strangles himself with a belt or his bedsheet. There's something more cruel about it. And beside all that, Lizzie needs this. So will you go to Carlisle?"

Nathaniel nods, "Anything for our Lizzie. I'll pack as soon as I get this pie out of the oven. Can Mr Kittering provide a wagon? And how long might we be staying?"

"He's getting a carriage ready for you. You'll be staying at least as long as it takes for Lizzie to get a visit. No idea beyond that. She might want to stay a while."

Nathaniel tosses his towel to Ezra, "House is all yours, Ez- maybe Miss Tory'll stop harassing you for time alone if she knows you've got your whole house for her." He smirks, and Ezra whips at him with the towel.

Mr York shakes his head, "Be good, boys. And Nathaniel, I'll expect to see you at Mr Kittering's as soon as possible." He leaves their little house and returns to his own. He heads up to the bedrooms. Lizzie has her small trunk out and has been stuffing clothing into it haphazardly. He sighs and starts folding. In less than half an hour, she is ready, and he has gone through her packing to make sure she did not forget anything. She has Thomas' letters in a leather folder on top of her clothes, her châtelaine and an apron with a pocket big enough for her notebook. Once her father leaves, she sits in her room and waits for the carriage. Something catches her eye- the quilt on the end of her bed. Thomas' quilt. She pulls it around her like a cloak and cries. Mr York returns to the livery. Nathaniel has already loaded his trunk in the small carriage and is ready to drive. Neither man says anything about the quilt wrapped around her shoulders instead of her cloak. After picking up Lizzie, they are off.

Mr York returns to the livery and sighs, "Well, Gerry, we've done the best we can for the boy. Godspeed to the kids, I hope they make it in time."

Mr Kittering takes his hand and shakes it once, reassuring, "You did more than your best, Reg. He's had a proper Christmas and people to care about him. It's more than anyone else would have done, myself included."

 


	15. Life and Death

Nathaniel drives the horses hard through the evening and into the night, Lizzie alert beside him. She does not dare to sleep. The ride to Carlisle seems to take even longer than usual as she goes over the words from the letter over and over again. She has not yet read what he wrote in her notebook, even thought she is curious. She took his request to wait to heart. But it is hard, on this long trip over a very cold night, not to wonder what he had to say to her. And to wonder what his life could have been had he left Crimson Peak permanently before anyone else had to die. She wonders how his sister slamming a cleaver into their mother's head hadn't been a warning sign that the future with her would be violent, but at the same time, she has some understanding as to why he did not leave. She read the confessions. She thinks about the conversation she heard in the carriage, and Brother Morton, who has only just been allowed to return to his own home, and the knife wound Thomas is still recovering from.

She does not know that he has already decided to die and that he is only waiting for the moment when he can somehow distract the guards long enough to use his belt to hang himself. That he sits in his cell in Carlisle hoping that she will forgive him, but also knowing she will no longer have to wonder when he will die. It will be over.

In the morning, Thomas eats breakfast and reads for a few hours. Lunch is as disappointing as usual. And then there is a ruckus from elsewhere in the jail and his guards both run towards the noise as they hear shouts for help. It is his opportunity. He slips the belt from his waist, makes the loop, and ties the end to the bars on the ground-level window. He stretches it over to the cot and takes a few breaths, hesitating, knowing that this will be a long and difficult strangulation, but it will still be a shorter death than that to which he subjected three of his brides. He places the leather around his neck.

Nathaniel and Lizzie spend their morning settling into their rooms in Mr Hayes' house. They take their breakfast and wait for word from the governor. At lunch, it comes. A visit has been granted and, given the letter from Mr York, it will not be the only one. Mr York has friends in many places.

Mr Hayes gets word of trouble in the prison shortly after the letter arrives and advises them to stay put until he sends for them. He is not gone long and they head to the prison to see Thomas.

Thomas still stands on his cot, contemplating the noose, when he hears footsteps and Gerry's voice, "Glad that wasn't much serious. Boys tend to get a bit rowdy this time of year- been pent up for too long in the cold and dark. Come spring, the sun will come through the windows, give a bit of relief." It is now or never. He only hopes he can jump with enough force to cause damage that will kill him even after they cut him down.

Then he hears another voice, one he recognizes as well, "This time of year gets to us all, doesn't it, gov? Even out where we're from. Too long in the grey!"

He stops. There is silence, then Gerry chuckles, "Aye, Miss, you're right about that."

She's here, Thomas thinks. And then they round the corner and everyone freezes.

Nathaniel breaks the uncomfortable silence as they see into his cell, "Well this is a bit different than how we expected to find you. Hallo, Thomas."

Thomas bows his head, ashamed of being caught, dreading trying to explain himself, and also blaming himself for cowardice in his hesitation, "Hello, Nathaniel. Lizzie."

She steps forward first, but Gerry tries to stop her, "Miss, technically I'm not supposed to let you go ahead."

She pushes his hand back and shakes her head, intense worry mixed with anger in her expression. She continues toward the cell. Thomas removes the noose and steps down, leaving the end of the belt to dangle from the window. He drops onto the cot, his head in his hands.

"Lizzie, I..."

"Don't. Be still." He listens. Her voice is a gift he takes very seriously, especially after seeing what its use does to her.

Gerry unlocks the cell, "Now, we aren't supposed to really do this, but the governor granted full visits to you two- your father must be something special, Miss York. I've never had those orders."

The moment the door is open, Lizzie pushes her way past Gerry and sits beside Thomas, wrapping her arms around him. Nathaniel steps inside and leans against the wall, watching.

"I'm sorry, Lizzie. I just...I want this to be over with. Death should not take this long."

Gerry sighs, "I don't know if he wants me to tell you folks this, but he's tried once before, too. Wasn't successful in scratching himself, even- we stopped him. But you should know."

Thomas' face burns with shame and he pulls away from her, trying to make himself small, tucking himself against the wall. She stops him, gently turns his cheek toward her, even as he resists, and kisses it, resting her forehead against his temple after. She lets the moment linger, hoping that she is providing at least a little comfort or reassurance, even without words.

"Why did you come?"

Nathaniel answers so Lizzie does not have to move to retrieve her notebook, "You see, it was Mr York who said it best- you shouldn't have to die alone. That's just cruel. If the Crown takes you, it'll be fast, and you won't be by yourself. But there's something especially harsh about a long, difficult death alone." He pauses, "And Lizzie here said she wanted to come, so we did."

Thomas nods, "Thank you."

"You don't really know if you mean that."

"No...but yes. I do. It means something that you would."

Lizzie does not move for her notebook and Nathaniel doesn't know what more to say, "Well, shall I give you two a moment by yourselves?"

Lizzie nods. Thomas doesn't know if this is a good idea or not, but he does not protest.

Gerry, still outside the cell, addresses Nathaniel as he leaves, "You sure he won't hurt her?"

"Absolutely. Man's got enough on his head already. And Lizzie's...well, Lizzie. He knows how we all watch out for her. And what any man among us would do to him if he ever harmed even a hair. And nobody'd bat a lash if we did." Gerry takes the hint and nods, "You see, our Lizzie, she's a right special girl. Been through hell and back. And she's tough when she has to be. But she also needs the people in her life who treat her like a thinking girl and he does. Give them a little space, gov. She'll be fine."

"And him?"

"He can't really be any worse now, can he?"

Gerry shrugs, "You've got a point." They step farther back in the hallway, far enough that they are out of earshot if Thomas whispers, but close enough that they can clearly see what is happening in the cell.

Lizzie, still leaning her forehead against his temple, her breath against his cheek, wraps her arms around him, and waits for him to respond. After a few long moments alone, Thomas sighs and she feels him relax. He turns to face her and she pulls him close, gently encouraging him to rest against her shoulder. He does not resist this.

"I'm sorry, Lizzie. I didn't want you to see this."

She rubs his back.

"I...I hoped you would be able to forget. To move on, take a lover, marry, have children, and never think of me so long as your life was happy. You have known me for such a short time, it should not take long."

She sits up and retrieves her notebook, carefully choosing her words before showing him her reply, " _I do not want to forget. You are dear to me, Thomas. More-so than you know or than you will allow yourself to understand. And I am fine with that. It is_ _your_ _death that is coming, not mine, and however you must make your peace with this, I accept. But do not cut me out entirely and do not dismiss that I might not_ _want_ _to forget you. Allow me this one grace- that I might remember my friend however suits me._ "

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you come close. I did not want my death to be felt by anyone else but me."

" _But it always will be. Did you never read John Donne? 'No Man is an Iland' and all that?"_

"Donne was not in my father's library."

She turns back to the first page in her notebook, flips to the inside of the cover, and points to the words she has written there,

" _'No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...' Meditation 17, John Donne."_

"A beautiful sentiment, but I assure you, there are many who die alone in this world for whom no one mourns."

She flips back to her current page, " _That isn't the point- the point is that it always has a ripple, whether that is for the one who finds the dead or the old friend who some day asks whatever happened to so-and-so. We all matter because we all_ _are_ _. We cannot go through life entirely without the contact of any other person, no matter how hard we try."_

"But what of us? Who would have ever felt any sort of effect if Lucille and I had starved to death in that godforsaken hall, alone and unknown to anyone but ourselves? We had no friends, we had no family. We would have rotted away, buried under the collapse of the house, never thought of, never found."

" _But some day, in the distant future, someone would have stumbled on the wreckage and found bones and wondered who it was who died in that lonely place. The earth never remains undisturbed, not anymore. And where there is clay, there will be mines, for clay will hold up the great cities and there will always be a need for those. Someone would ask. And besides, mankind would be the less with the loss of you because you have so much potential to be so much greater than you are or have been."_

"And when I die, what will you do?"

" _Grieve deeply. Dream of what might have been. Cry. And work, as I have always done."_

"You will not marry?"

" _Who? Every man who has courted me has wanted a shell of a woman, not me. Marriage has never been a goal. Not since I lost my voice."_

"Certainly there are other good men in the world, even here in Carlisle? Or you could travel to London."

" _In my experience, that would only mean there were a proportionally larger number of wicked and stupid ones as well."_

Thomas laughs, "My dear, that may be true, but you will never find your match if you do not sift through them."

She sighs and once again puts pen to paper, _"I never did intentionally sift, Thomas, and yet here you are- I think I_ _have_ _found my match_ _. I do not mean to be so forward...no, actually, I do. You fell into my life and that is how all good things seem to come. I do not seek out anyone. I do my work and where it takes me, I will follow. And what that means in the future, I do not know, for who would hire on a young woman with no voice? I will likely work my father's jail until it is mine and then I am no more."_

"But what of Nathaniel? Is he not a good man? And you both seem to get along well."

" _And I thought I was too bold."_ She smiles and shows him the paper, shaking her head, holding up a finger before he protests, " _I cannot marry Nathaniel- we share a mother. So we are siblings, even though we did not know it until only a few years ago."_

This news is startling and Thomas cannot think of what to say other than to ask something he thinks is probably entirely inappropriate. His facial expression gives away his thoughts and she places a finger on his lips, raising her eyebrows, tilting her head inquisitively.

"Just ask?"

She nods.

"Who is his father?"

She writes, _"Yours."_

When he sees the word, he cannot think of something else to say, but he glances in the hall toward the young man with bright blue eyes and strawberry hair, "He must look like your mother."

" _Very much, he does. More, even, than I do. Your father has a few other children in the village."_

"Why did he never say anything?"

" _He did not know if you want to know- or if you knew that your father was sleeping with other women."_

"It would have been hard not to, given how many times he held it over my mother's head."

" _It has made courting interesting for our village youth- they have always had to ask if they are the bastard children of Lord Sharpe or if they are truly their father's. Otherwise a match would be between half siblings."_

"But not you. You are free to find whomever you wish."

" _I know. And I am quite enamoured by you. But I will stop reminding you of this. I apologize- you did not want to have anyone attached to you in these final months. I will do better to approach only as your friend from here forward- though you will have to forgive me if I forget myself and kiss you at our final meeting."_

"Thank you, Lizzie." But they are sitting close and he understands that this conversation is a rejection of the only person that might love him. It hurts, no matter how distant he tries to hold himself. And they sit close, very close. She hugs him, he squeezes back, letting the hold linger just a little longer than what is polite between friends. They sit back slowly and stop when their lips are close. He moves to kiss her, her lips waiting, but stops and instead kisses her forehead, "I'm so sorry. Only one more time before the end."

" _And if they grant you mercy, will you do so for me and go back on your word?"_

He laughs quietly, "Of course. If that miracle happens, we will certainly have time to consider such things."

Nathaniel calls from the hall, "Lizzie- the man here says we ought be going soon- they'll be moving prisoners around and don't want us here when they do."

Lizzie takes Thomas' hand, pats it, and bows her goodbye. Thomas bows back.

"Goodbye, Nathaniel. Take good care of her."

"I always do, mate."

After they are gone, Gerry lingers in his cell before locking him up, "They seemed like nice folks. She's got connections, to get a letter sent to let her in whenever she asks. Her father's made some powerful friends."

"Mr York is a good man. I'm sure with his work in the village he has made allies in higher places."

"The governor himself wrote her letter of introduction."

"I know nothing of the governor, but I appreciate what he has done for her."

"For her? What about for you?"

"I am trying to keep my distance so her heart does not break when I die."

Gerry scoffs, "You've done a piss poor job of that, boy. She's fond of you. The young man seems to think you'd all be good friends, had everything gone differently."

"Lizzie told me he is my half brother."

"Well then I would hope you'd be friends."

"As would I. But I do not want to forge that bond if I am only to hang."

Gerry sighs, "I suppose that's so." There is an awkward pause, "I don't want to have to have a man in here with you all the time, every minute of every day, to make sure you don't kill yourself. The Crown wants to make sure it's quick and humane. And I don't need to be the one to break it to those two that you've gone and killed yourself. Trust me. It'll be better for them to take you home after the long drop."

Thomas cannot think of anything else to say. He swallows hard, thinking about the death that is likely to come sooner, rather than later, and tries to keep his composure. He has done remarkably well by simply refusing to think about it. Gerry locks up and takes up his post. The other guard joins him soon and they resume their quiet watch. Thomas picks up a book. He tires to read, but his mind is racing and he can't focus on the page. He stares at it and pretends so that he can avoid their questions. The belt still hangs from the window. He does not want to take it down.

 


	16. Another Parting

The letters continue to come and Thomas responds as quickly as possible. They are usually short, but it keeps him busy. Rebecca writes to describe the plants she has stared in her spare rooms, her entire house smelling of herbs and baking. Thaddeus talks about the weather, the snow drifts, and the lovely way the ice glints in the churchyard. Mr York writes reassuring things, telling him that there is a place waiting in his house if the Crown grants mercy.

Lizzie keeps her visits short. She always comes with Nathaniel. They do not speak much, but she asks how he is, has he been eating, and if he is staying warm. She asks Gerry if she can bring him soup when she makes it for Mr Hayes with permission of the jailer. So every week, at least on Wednesdays, and often on Fridays and Sundays as well, she commandeers a tea cart from the Hayes house and brings five bowls of steaming soup down to the prison- two for the guards, one for Thomas, and one each for she and Nathaniel. It is good soup.

And then Lizzie is called back home, for there are a few people in the jail and her father needs her hands. She packs her bags and she and Nathaniel are ready to leave after one final visit to the prison.

She arrives to find Thomas mulling on a series of pages and settles beside him, "Hello, Lizzie."

She playfully salutes him.

"You are in good spirits today."

She taps the pages.

"From Edith's solicitor. The divorce is final. These are proof and explanations of the American laws governing it. Copies for my own solicitor. She is free now. Perhaps she will marry the doctor, or go on to write her novel and become famous in America for her words."

Lizzie opens her notebook, _"Father has called for me to come home- there are enough people in the jail that he needs my hands. Carlisle has been good to us, and I have been grateful to be here for you, but I have to leave. I will write, though, and I hope you will call for help if you need it, instead of taking matters into your own hands."_

"I know. I will."

" _Mr Hayes has said his doors are always open to us and that he likes having us there. So that is wonderful to know. But we also must take care of home. And I will do the best I can to take care of you from this distance. And he will tell us when the date is set so that we may come to comfort you."_

"Don't come, Lizzie. If your father wishes to, then yes, but please. I don't want you to see a hanging. My hanging."

" _I know. But I also do not want you to feel alone."_

He takes both her hands, "You are a forgiving and kind young woman. Please, give me this one grace? That you will not have to see this death?"

She sighs and nods.

"Thank you."

Nathaniel clears his throat, "Sorry to break up your moment, but Mr Hayes' boy doesn't want to be waiting long. We'll see you later, Thomas. And hopefully there will be good news by then."

"Yes. We can hope." Thomas thinks that his hope will be for a quick death but he knows this is not what Nathaniel means. Lizzie squeezes his hands and stands. He keeps one of hers and brings it to his lips, "Goodbye, Lizzie. Nathaniel. Until we meet again."

She leaves quickly and Nathaniel follows. It isn't until they are on the road that they talk.

"Lizzie...you're in too deep."

She punches his arm and rolls her eyes.

"I know, no shit. But you are. And you need to remember that he's likely going to be hanged."

She sighs and reaches for the notebook.

"No, you don't need to reply. You've got to follow your heart and all that. Just remember that it's going to hurt all that much more when it happens." His voice softens, "And don't think it means nothing to me, too. I never knew family. At least, not any more than what Helga and your father could give me and what Ez did for me. It was something to find out who my father was, and that I had a brother. I should have gone out to the house then, shouldn't I? Maybe I could have stopped some of this, given him an out..."

Lizzie shakes her head and mimes pouring something into a cup and sipping it.

"Or she could have just poisoned me, too. You're right. It wouldn't have been rosy. She wouldn't have liked the competition."

She pats his shoulder.

"You're a good sister, Liz. Always have been, even when I didn't know you were. I hope for a miracle in all this, for your sake. And for mine, ,too. I've always wanted a real brother."

 


	17. The Longest Walk

Lizzie writes to Thomas about her new inmates. One is a young man who has been jailed for beating his girlfriend. He leers at her, mocks her, and, one day, throws his soup at her as she leaves to deliver the others supper. There is also an older man, heavy set, who has trouble seeing and calls her "little girl" whenever she serves him his meals, but is otherwise not unpleasant. He is in jail for stealing a cow and slaughtering it in the street. Thomas writes back with sympathy, careful to keep his letters distant and void of most of his thoughts- he prefers to react to her predicaments, rather than try to interject his own feelings into the matter. That would require he acknowledge they exist.

Mr Hayes comes to him with a letter and a grim expression early one morning while Thomas is eating his porridge, "Well, Mr Sharpe, I've got some news."

Thomas sets his bowl aside and braces himself, "Tell me truthfully, sir."

"The Home Office wants the law to take its course. You have an appeal, but-"

"No. There is no sense in that. How long?"

"One week. I've sent a letter to the Yorks. We'll wait until we either hear from them, or they arrive."

"I've asked that Lizzie not come."

"And I know Reg a little better than you, son. He'll be here if he's alive to do so. We'll wait until he can stand by you."

"Oh. Thank you."

"Do you want me to send a preacher? Priest? Rabbi?"

"No thank you."

Mr Hayes studies his ward; he is calm, but it is the kind of calm that he knows won't last- the calm that comes from a man struggling to grasp what he has been told. Despair usually comes next, sometimes anger. He warns the guards on his way back to his office.

Thomas stares at the floor for most of the day. He has a date. One week. There are things he suddenly wants to write, but he tells himself that he has already said them. He has told Edith his regrets. He has told Lizzie enough...or, rather, he will have, once she reads the letter in her notebook. He wants to thank Mr York, but knows that he would fumble his words and that Mr York already likely knows he is grateful. He will tell someone to pass along the message after he is already dead.

The week goes slowly and there are no more letters, no more visits; the day of his execution, Gerry enters before breakfast, "So...do you have any last requests, Mr Sharpe? Words you want said to anyone?"

"I would like to skip breakfast and get this over with as quickly as possible."

Gerry nods, "I'll send for Mr Hayes. He'll come for you when it's time." He pauses, "Do you want to talk about anything before we make the walk?"

"Do you do this often?"

"For every man I'm assigned to, yes. I stay until the last. Nobody dies without a familiar face nearby."

"I am grateful for all you have done to keep me company during the time I have been here. Thank you for your kindness."

"You're welcome. Any messages for others?"

"Will you thank Mr York for all he did for me? And for trusting me with Lizzie?"

"Of course. Anyone else?"

"No. Yes. Have him thank the others who were so gracious to Lucille in death. And those who ended us. Allerdale Hall is theirs to do with whatever they wish. Thank god this is all over."

Gerry nods, "It will be soon. I'll go talk to Mr Hayes." The other guard is still in place. Thomas takes in his surroundings one more time. The cot. The books and periodicals he has borrowed. The belt still hanging from the bars on the window. He hears footsteps

"Mr Sharpe. You're ready for this?"

"Yes, Mr Hayes. I want this done."

"You have a guest waiting with the hangman."

"Oh?"

"Mr York."

"Ah. I asked that they not come."

"And I told you he'd be here. He said he wouldn't abide by that last request. Said someone had to be here to bring you home.".

Mr Hayes does not chain Thomas and the three men walk down the hallways, his pace brisk. Gerry holds his elbow and guides him. No hesitations, no fights, they move forward with determination. They turn down a long, dim, hallway and Thomas' feet falter. Mr Hayes turns back and they hear his footsteps fading.

"Steady, son, it's just a few more steps." Thomas turns to his other side and takes a shaky breath, his fear starting to creep to the surface, his heart tripping, breath starting to speed up.

"Thank you, Mr York."

Mr York puts a hand between Thomas' shoulders, "You're welcome. Just keep walking. You're almost there. It's better to do it this way instead of having to be dragged screaming to the noose."

"Yes, sir."

He applies a little nudging pressure and Thomas moves forward, forcing himself to breathe, trembling as the door grows closer. Gerry opens it and they are met by an old man in a black robe.

"Come in, young man. There's little to be afraid of here. Just an old man and the end of all things." Thomas has to be pushed into the room. He tries to focus on the old man, not the noose or the trap in the floor. The man's voice is soothing, calm, and steady, "You're afraid. Every man is, no matter their station, when they see this place. Priests, lords, peasants, and homeless drunks, they all come in here for the same reason. The priests often react the worst." He takes Thomas' hands, "Come. This way. Do you need a man of the cloth?"

"N...n...no, sir."

"Anything you would like said?"

Thomas shakes his head.

"Then come this way, young man." He walks backwards, drawing Thomas towards the noose, "Keep moving. You're doing fine. This won't take long, and it will be over soon. Keep focused on my voice." Thomas nods. There is something incredibly calming about the old man's presence. He stands him in place over the trap.

Mr York and Gerry stay near the door while the old man readies the rope. Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, trying desperately not to panic, but it isn't working.

He whispers, repeating, "I'm so sorry, please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me, I'm so sorry," over and over as the old man places it around his neck.

He touches Thomas' cheek, "They know and they do."

Thomas stops repeating himself, "Thank you." He won't open his eyes, and it takes everything in him to keep from collapsing or wetting himself in terror. He is past the point of keeping back tears, and though he tries, he cannot, biting his lip until he tastes blood, scared of the long fall that is coming. The old man steps back.

"It will be over soon." Thomas hears footsteps and a prayer whispered in a language he does not know, a countdown to his end.

The door clicks open.

"Hold, Mr Angel."

"Oh, Mr Hayes?"

He holds up a piece of paper and reads, " _Mr Hayes, I regret to inform you that I did not have the complete record on the Sharpe case when I made my decision to let the law take its course. Having reviewed the documents, previously undelivered, on Miss Lucille Sharpe, her confession and the confession of Mr Thomas Sharpe as dictated to Mr York, and the sworn statement of Miss Lizzie York, I declare Mr Sharpe's sentence be changed to grant mercy. With the death of his sister, I do not believe he will be a danger to the Crown or her citizens after sufficient time imprisoned. It is my deepest hope that this letter arrives in time."_

Mr Angel takes his hand from the lever controlling the trap, "Good god, we nearly killed him." He walks to Thomas and removes the noose, "Young man...did you hear Mr Hayes?"

Thomas does not respond.

Mr Angel touches his cheek again, gently patting, "Come back to us. You're not going to die today. The Crown sent another letter. You've been granted mercy."

Thomas' eyes open; he is deeply confused, searching Mr Angel's face for any sign of a trick, "What? How?"

"Mr Hayes' letter says that some of your papers weren't delivered."

"I...I..." Thomas' knees buckle. Mr Angel catches him, but cannot keep him up, slowing his drop to the floor. Gerry runs to help.

Mr Hayes turns to leave, "I'll ready a cell. Losing his papers like that...good god... On what did they actually decide the case? Just the judge's word?"

Mr York steps out in the hall with him, "Bart, this is downright cruel. You're going to need to make some exceptions for him to get him through the night. And you're going to let me add my own piece to your reply to the Home Secretary. We're better than this."

Mr Hayes nods, "I agree. I need you to take care of Mr Sharpe. We'll write it together once we know he's found his feet."

"I need you to tell my daughter that her friend's alive. I left her crying in your guest room, waiting to hear he's dead."

"I will."

Mr York returns to the hanging chamber. Thomas has been moved off the trap and is kneeling with his head against the wall, heaving. Gerry holds his hair. Mr Angel stands back. Mr York crouches beside Thomas and rubs his back.

"What do you need from us, son?"

"How...how did this happen?"

"They somehow lost everything we sent- sounds like they only had the judge's papers and the testimony of the Americans."

Thomas retches again, his forehead against the cool stone. He can't think straight. Everything is coming in pieces and he struggles to understand what Mr York tells him. There is nothing in his stomach as he heaves again and tries to steady himself enough that he does not collapse face first into the bile. Someone, and he isn't sure who, puts strong arms under his chest to help him stay up.

"We need to get him out of here," Gerry says.

"Out to the hall."

Gerry and Mr York haul Thomas to his feet and help him to stagger to the door.

He stops before they leave, "One moment." He turns to Mr Angel, "Thank...thank you, sir. For your kindness."

Mr Angel bows, "You are welcome."

"No offense meant, but I hope I don't see you again."

"I understand. Please, go, take a breath of the dank prison air as though it is the sweetest you will ever breathe."

In the hall, Thomas leans hard against the wall. Gerry takes one side, Mr York takes the other. None of them speak. Thomas stares at the opposite wall, exhausted and stunned. And then Mr Hayes comes to report that the cell is ready and they slowly start moving again.

 


	18. Anew

She has read the short letter in her notebook from Thomas at least a dozen times since her father left for the prison. She daubs the paper with her apron when her tears drop on the page, trying to keep the ink from smearing.

Mr Hayes knocks on the bedroom door. Lizzie answers, her face streaked, her hair disheveled, her apron smudged with pencil. She dreads what he has to say.

"Miss York. We received this at the last moment." He hands her the letter.

She reads it once, twice, and a third time before handing it back and shaking her head in horrified disbelief.

He realizes Lizzie thinks Thomas has been hanged, "He's alive, Miss. Get yourself ready. It will give them time it get his new cell set."

Lizzie nearly faints, catching herself on the doorframe. Mr Hayes helps her into her room and sits her at the dressing table. She thanks him with her bow.

"Just come down to the kitchen table when you are done. He's going to need you."

The click of her door happens at the same time that everything clicks together in her head. Thomas is alive. She is needed in the prison. She is a mess. She jumps to her feet, tosses off her apron, and washes her face. She tries to tidy her hair, but gives up, tearing it down and dragging her brush roughly through it before pulling it into a messy bun. She grabs her notebook and pencil. She takes the stairs two at a time. Mr Hayes looks up from the letter when she arrives in the kitchen.

"Ready?"

She nods.

"Right. Let's go." They walk to the prison and, as he takes her down new halls, he explains, "He'll likely be taken somewhere else for the long term, but I'm going to write the Home Secretary and offer to keep him here, so he's closer to family- you, your father." He glances to her and she nods in acknowledgment, though he's not sure she is listening. He stops and touches her arm, "Lizzie...you should know that he had the noose around his neck when I came into the chamber with this letter. He's been through hell- Mr Angel's hand was on the lever. I don't know how he's going to act when you meet him."

She scribbles in her notebook, " _Just take me to him, Mr Hayes. I will worry about his state of mind once I have him beside me."_

He sees the determination on her face and clears his throat before continuing forward, "Right then- let's go." They are soon in the back corner of the prison, in an area that looks very different from the rest. The cells have doors with large, barred windows, but doors none the less. The rooms she can see into have real beds and small writing desks. "We used to use this wing for the Lords and Bishops we'd get through here. It's a little more comfortable. We don't get many of them these days, but we still keep it ready."

In the farthest cell, one with its own window to the outdoors, she sees her father. She hurries towards it. Mr Hayes does not stop her as she breaks into a run. Mr York steps outside the cell and intercepts her.

"Lizzie, stop a moment. This was probably the most terrifying thing he's ever experienced."

She takes a deep breath and pats her heart, then points towards the cell.

"I know. But I'm not sure what he's going to want to tell you, or if he's going to say anything at all. The Crown's been damn cruel to him." He steps aside and Lizzie enters the cell. Thomas is curled up on the bed, his back to the room, trembling. Gerry carefully arranges the books dumped haphazardly on the desk by the other guards.

"I'll be out of your way in a moment, miss. Just giving a little care to what the boys dropped here." He finishes setting them in a neat stack before leaving the cell. He leaves the door open and Lizzie can hear him talking to her father and Mr Hayes, their voices low, a dull murmur in the hall. She perches on the edge of his bed and very gently rests her arm against his side, her hand on his shoulder.

"Thomas?"

He does not look away from the wall, "Lizzie?" But he knows it is her. There is no one else in Carlisle who sounds like her.

She leans down against him and weaves her fingers with his, her face close to his cheek, "Talk to me."

"I can't."

She kisses his cheek, "I understand." She coughs.

Thomas turns on his back and Lizzie tries to sit up, farther away, but he pulls her down to bend over him and rests a finger on her lips, "Don't speak. Please use your notebook. For your own sake." He calls for water, and he hears footsteps heading away. Someone has heard. She hears the footsteps returning and sits up. Her father enters and hands her a mug. She nods her thanks and sips. He returns to the hall.

Thomas sits up slowly, still shaky, "Today has been...rough."

She snorts into her mug, nearly spitting.

He smiles, "An understatement?"

She nods. She finishes the water and sets the mug on the floor, then retrieves her notebook, " _Understatement is an understatement! I thought you were dead. I spent all morning in mourning."_

"I'm sorry, Lizzie. I shouldn't have put you through that."

She shoves his arm, her expression mildly annoyed, before she writes, " _You_ _put me through it? Good lord- Thomas, you act as though I have no heart of my own. I chose to pursue you, knowing full well you would be executed. I knew I would grieve. Until this morning, you have only ever made me content."_

He leans close to her ear and whispers so her father will not hear, "Only content?" A little shutter tingles up her spine as she puts pencil to paper.

" _Content with the state of my heart, which has felt so different these past weeks. Months. However long it has been that we have known one another. I think this is something big. Perhaps even the beginning of l_. I dare not write the word in this context. For now, I use 'content' until I know."_

"What examples of it have I had? Not my parents. My sister? That was twisted, a thing distorted and perverse, grown from damaged hearts. My wives? More adored for the hope they represented- the hope of an escape. I do think Edith was different, but still, not right."

" _I know you have a heart- I heard your voice when you spoke of your son in the carriage. We will learn the way of it together, if this is what we have. I read your note. I know you did not want to risk anything when you were to die, but now that things have changed...may we see where this could lead?"_

Thomas takes her hands, "Lizzie...I have never been so terrified as I was not even half an hour ago- has it even been ten minutes? Everything shook. I'm still trembling. I begged for forgiveness. I was afraid my body would lose composure and I would embarrass myself. I could think no farther than that I desperately did not want to die, though I knew I deserved it. The rope was around my neck... I did not hear him. I could not. All I could hear was the white noise of my own fear and the pounding of my heart. After...confusion. A turned stomach. I hardly know how I got here. I cannot shake this terror. How can I hope to pick up where we left off?"

Lizzie leans in her eyes closed, lips parting for a kiss, and he initially draws back. She pulls his hands on her waist and slips her hands up his arms, resting them on his shoulders. She smiles and kisses his cheek instead. He blushes. She raises an eyebrow, curious as to what he will do next, then kisses the corner of his mouth. He does not back away, his eyes closed, mouth seeking hers. They meet, her lips soft, gentle, and lingering. He wants to lose himself entirely, but he knows that with her father just outside the door and Gerry on guard, he cannot risk letting this carry him too far.

She leans forward to whisper in his ear, "Just like that."

"We are being listened to. Watched. Guarded."

She opens the notebook, _"I know. That is why I kept my hands only on your shoulders instead of letting them wander."_ She shows him the message and smirks. He raises an eyebrow, his smile awkward and embarrassed. She keeps writing, _"If anything, your near-death makes this feel all the more important. I_ _nearly lost you_ _this morning. I realized just how deeply embedded in my heart you are. I cannot let this opportunity slip past me."_

"But what of my imprisonment? Surely that will make this far more difficult?"

" _It will. And I will have to continue work in the jail in the village. But I will set up visits when I can, and Nathaniel can accompany me when my father cannot. And we can write letters that do not have to be so carefully distant. If you wish, I will scent them with Rebecca's herbs, with lavender and rosewater, and write in flowery language just how dearly I miss you. And then, after that is taken care of, I will describe in the most un-subtle ways possible just what indecent things I dream of doing to you."_

Thomas turns crimson, "Oh, um. Yes? Are you sure that is entirely proper?"

The glint of mischief in her eyes answers his question before she writes it, _"Proper has nothing to do with it. I will have to wait over a decade for you to leave this place; I am not going to curb my imagination that long. And besides, it will make your release something all the more to look forward to."_

"I suppose it will. It will certainly alleviate the feeling of dread at returning to Allerdale Hall."

" _Why would you return there? I will have a house of my own by then, a place to welcome you to, a warm cottage with a soft bed and a solid roof. No one will be able to take care of the manor house while you are here and after a decade, at the least, you will likely find it only rubble. There will be nothing there to return to."_

"You would invite me to your home?"

She nods.

"And your bed?"

She kisses his cheek.

"Then might I ask something of you?"

She tilts her head, a question.

"Will you dispose of it? The mining machine, give that to Ezra, so that he might make something greater of himself by studying it- give him all my steam powered things. My workshop, my tools, my machinery, the driveshafts, everything. Disassemble the manor to build him a steam shed. Take my sister's dresses, sell them, take them for their fabric, whatever you wish. The textiles are fine, if the moths have not destroyed them. Anyone in the village who wants furniture, it is theirs. And find a place for the library, or sell it. But if it will do nothing but rot until I return, then I would rather this than it all go to waste. Oh, but save the portrait of my mother- fold it, crease it, whatever, so that I may burn it when I am free."

" _Of course. I will be your faithful steward and I will dismantle it on your behalf."_ She shows him the words and then holds up a finger, returning to her writing, _"How do you plan on getting through today? Can you face the night alone? Or will this be something they will allow my assistance with?"_

He lowers his voice and whispers, "I will not deflower you in a jail cell if that is your intent."

" _That will wait- in part because I do not want to risk being inhibited by the potential of voyeuristic guards. I will stay with you, though, if I am allowed."_

He smiles, laughing a little, "My god, Lizzie, I'm alive. And glad of it. When did this become possible? When did I...did I start wanting to live?" His face becomes more serious, "But what could I do to make up for everything I have been a part of?"

" _Make it count. Every moment. Lay flowers on their graves, remember their names, and learn to be the man they thought you could be."_

"And who is that?"

" _Thomas Sharpe. Someone who loves deeply. Someone who will change a little corner of the world."_

"You believe I can?"

" _Change your corner of the world? You already have. The other?"_ She sets the notebook aside and places both hands on his shoulders, her legs draped over his. She kisses him deeply, hoping her father is not watching and also not entirely sure she cares if he does. When she pulls back, she tugs his lower lip just a little with her teeth, a tease of what may come down the road.

He has to take a moment to find his thoughts, "Thank you. For every moment of your trust. I certainly did nothing to earn this."

" _They say my mother had an intuition about people- she knew things about them on sight. And they say she could know a person's soul by touching them. I don't know what was true- she was a bit of a legend, the crazy Scottish woman who crossed Hadrian's wall to find a lover she'd seen in her dreams... But I sometimes think that some of it was true and I have inherited at least that part of her gift- I knew that I could trust you. Hopefully I have not also inherited her madness."_ What she does not write is that she had a vision, like her mother, of her family years down the road and she had it long before he was in the prison wagon. She knew his voice before she heard it.

Thomas cannot think of anything to say, so he waits. He puts an arm around her shoulder. She leans into him. They sit, comfortable with the silence.

Mr Hayes comes by to ask about lunch and has it delivered. Gerry, needed elsewhere in the prison, locks the door. Mr York follows Mr Hayes to his office to work on a strongly worded letter to the Home Secretary.

Lizzie and Thomas eat without conversation and, after, sit together on the bed, Lizzie in front of Thomas, comfortable resting against his chest. They explore each others' hands. Holding them. Tracing the lines on the palms. Easing tension from the muscles and joints with gentle pressure. Lizzie holds his palms open and up, examining the little scars, some from cuts, some from burns. She lightly kisses his fingertips, then pulls his arms around her waist, nestling into him. It is not long before they both fall asleep.

This is how Gerry finds them when he comes to retrieve the lunch dishes. He smiles and sneaks in quietly, unwilling to wake them. They are still sleeping when it is time for supper. He gently rouses them so it will not get cold and they eat, groggy, tangled up together. After supper, Mr York pulls Lizzie aside and asks her to come to Mr Hayes' house for sleeping. She wants to argue, but instead relents, asking that Gerry send for her if Thomas needs her. After explaining this to Thomas, she kisses his forehead and follows her father.

Left alone with his thoughts, Thomas tries to quiet them with a book. They wander into difficult places. When he finds himself nodding off, fear rises in his chest. The walk to the noose. Mr Angel's steady and soothing voice. Rope around his neck. He jerks upright, trembling. Sleep will not come easily. He tries to read again and once again begins to doze. This time, he falls asleep.

 


	19. Night

After leaving Thomas' cell, Lizzie asks her father to take her to the hanging room, to see what Thomas saw. He does.

And she runs over what he must have felt over and over in her head as she lays awake in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark room that night.

It is near midnight; a knock on the door interrupts her thoughts, "Miss? Are you awake?"

Mr Hayes. She wraps herself in her dressing gown and opens the door.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but you said to call if he needed you...and he's woken himself yelling. He's terrified."

She nods and he sees her glance towards her dress, in a heap, on the floor, "Not to be too forward, Miss York, but given what happened today, I'd recommend putting on your jacket and coming without delay."

She does as he asks, grabs Thomas' quilt from the end of her bed, pulls on her boots, and meets him by the door. They are in the prison in minutes and it is eerily quiet. Someone cries in the dark. Someone else snores. When they reach Thomas' cell, Mr Hayes unlocks the door and steps in first, gesturing for Lizzie to follow once he knows it is safe.

Thomas sits on the bed, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, head bent, as though he is sleeping upright. Lizzie sits in front of him and bends to peer up at his face. His eyes are closed. She gestures for Mr Hayes to leave.

"I'm not sure about you staying the night here. What would your father say?"

She gestures for him to leave a little more aggressively.

Mr Hayes sighs, "I hope you know what you're doing." He locks the door behind him.

She tries to lift Thomas' chin, but he turns his head to avoid her. He isn't deeply asleep, even if he was when they entered. She pushes his hair back behind his ear and admires the way the shadows cast by the moonlight play on his face. The darkness under his chin, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way his black hair falls against pale skin. Her thoughts wander and she envisions the rope just under his jaw, the knot under his ear. It hurts her heart. Without thinking, she brushes her fingers against his neck, the warmth of his skin and the slight flutter of his heartbeat a reassurance that he is still alive, that she did not lose him.

Her fingers linger a little under his ear and he startles awake, scrambling back to the corner, gasping. He reaches for his throat and then looks up to see Lizzie, her hands outstretched, whispering, "It's only me. You're safe."

"Lizzie. I'm...am I awake?"

She nods, then indicates towards the moon and then her notebook. She writes with it at an angle so she can see and then gestures for Thomas to come close.

" _I'm so sorry, I didn't think and touched your throat. The moonlight on your skin was stunning. You are beautiful."_

He hands it back to her, "Yes, but what are _you_ doing _here_?"

" _Mr Hayes said you woke yourself yelling. He said you were terrified. He asked me to come to you. Then he wanted to hover. I have no doubt he is outside the door, listening. He did not want to leave us alone."_

"My crimes, no doubt, lead him to be suspicious."

" _Likely. But my father has vouched for you, and he holds a bit of power here. It is his word that had the governor send his letter to allow visits. I don't think you are dangerous. Nor do I think on your own you ever have been."_

"When I woke, I thought I was dead."

" _Given the day, is that any surprise? Also, you changed the subject quite quickly. I am the jailer's daughter; I notice. Talk."_

Thomas sighs, "Lucille came up with the idea. I wanted so badly to make the machine work. To make my father proud and restore the mines. 'Sharpe and Son'... I was a willing conspirator when it was only a conspiracy- before she told me they would die. I tried to be as distant as Lucille, but I could not be as cold- I held Pamela's hand in the end. I decided to leave when Margaret and Enola died- I left them in her...care? Perhaps that is not the right word. But I left them. They trusted me and I just...disappeared from them in their final moments. And I chose Edith over the woman my sister had picked. I knew she would survive. A creative mind, one that relished unraveling mysteries...I damaged her by bringing her here to break us. So much of this falls on me. I truly deserved to end today. I know this. And yet when the time came, death was terrifying and that terror overrode any sense of justice." He pauses, "My father would have thundered of my cowardice, raining blows down about my shoulders and when I was prone, he would have dragged me to my feet by my clothes, pinning me up so he could pummel me further or press his hands against my throat until I lost consciousness. He did it often enough, telling me I was dead to him after. That is how despicable I have been taught I am."

She bows her head and takes his hand, "That's terrible, Thomas."

"Write, my love. Do not risk yourself for me."

Lizzie takes his hands and holds them up to the moonlight, palm to palm, before letting them go to retrieve her notebook, _"I gladly take risks for you, Thomas. Yours are not the hands of a hardened and hopeless man. There is a witchcraft that Rebecca has taught me that reads stories in hands, calms with little motions, and reads souls in their lines. And while I cannot excuse anything you have done, nor can I justify it or say that it was not cowardice that pinned you in place beside your sister, I can say that no one deserves the sort of treatment your father delivered to his children and it does terrible things to people to grow up as you did. And I can say that you have been entirely forthcoming in your flaws, your guilt, and your role in this horrible string of crimes. You will have to move forward from this. It is how you will live. And in our little village, we can accept this. Can you? Can you carry this in your heart and live your life in memory of these three?"_

"Four. My son is victim to this as well."

" _Of course. I am so sorry I forgot him. I shouldn't. I helped prepare the bodies for burial."_

"You did?"

" _Yes. And we placed him with Enola, as you asked."_

"Thank you." He wants to say how much it means that his son is buried this way, but he falters and cannot find the words.

" _I have a sign for when words are not enough. Would you like me to show you?"_

"Please."

" _You do your hands like this."_ She places his hand over his heart, rests it there for a moment, and then brings it over her own. Then she places it back on his. _"From my heart to yours and yours to mine- heartspeak. Something like that. Something only hearts can understand."_

"That is beautiful. Do you use it often?"

" _No. But things this deep do not often find the time to be spoken of. My father has used it when we talk of my mother, but beyond that...rarely."_

"Ah. Then I will take care to use it wisely and well."

She nods and then returns to her notebook, _"Do you want to talk about the dream that woke you?"_

Thomas leans against the headboard and invites her to lean against him. She removes her coat and folds it neatly, getting up to set it on the desk. He shifts his legs so she can sit between them and she carefully settles against him, his arms around her waist. She tugs his quilt up from the foot of the bed and he brushes the fabric against her stomach.

"You brought it."

" _I brought it when you tried to kill yourself, too- I wore it as we rode."_

"Really?"

" _Of course."_

"But this time I was to die. Why did you bring it?"

" _When else would I have a greater need to be wrapped in it than once your body was in our carriage on the way home?"_

He hugs her, his chin on her shoulder, "Thank you, Miss York."

" _Now tell me of your dream. You need to. It is lingering._ "

"The dream...chained in hellfire. A world of only pain. And Lucille. Naked. Voracious. She said she would kill anyone I ever loved." He pauses, unsure if he should say the final piece, but he decides he ought to, "You included. She said she would reach from the grave and pluck you from life so that she could force you to watch what she would do to me for all eternity. I was screaming at her, pulling at the chains until they cut, telling her no, over and over again as I watched her smother you in your sleep. I awoke as you arrived and she began to torture you."

Lizzie twists to face him and whispers, "It's just a dream, no matter how real, and you are safe from her. So am I." She clears her throat, her cough just a few more syllables away.

Thomas nuzzles her hair, "I know. But these are old fears and she has only been gone a short time. She has killed everyone else about whom I have tried to care.. How do I let go and adore you without fearing the same?"

"Trust." It is the only word Lizzie can get out before the tickle in her throat grows bad enough she ought not speak. She thinks it is enough, though.

They adjust to lay more comfortably side by side and she quickly falls asleep. He watches her breathing, the moonlight reflecting against her hair. He thinks she looks angelic, her round face tucked against his chest. He kisses her forehead and whispers his goodnight. He falls into a deep, dreamless sleep. The smell of cinnamon and cloves still linger on the quilt, a comfort against the chill.

 


	20. Awake

Lizzie wakes early and rouses Thomas only enough to kiss him before she slips from his cell and returns to her own bed. She falls back asleep quickly, hoping that her father's reaction come later in the morning will be understanding. She has kept to herself for so long that she no longer knows how he will react to things pertaining to love and romance.

When she joins him for breakfast, she is relieved to learn that Mr Hayes is already in the jail and the conversation is only with one father, not two. She fiddles with the spine of her notebook, trying to figure out just what to write.

"I know you went to Thomas last night. And that you stayed the night there. The guards say you both slept well."

She blushes, then writes, _"You caught me. Did Mr Hayes tell you that he was the one who asked me to go?"_

"He did. Said he tried to stop you from staying, though."

She nods, then mimes pushing him away, rolling her eyes.

"Thomas behave himself?"

" _Always the gentleman."_

"Did you behave yourself?"

" _As much as I ever do."_

Mr York knows his daughter well enough to know this means she was relatively proper, but just improper enough that he will likely hear about it from someone sometime later. To strangers, she has always seemed tame, but he knows she has preferences that are more daring than her usual circumstances allow. She is not only the jailer's daughter, but an apprentice witch, and her thoughts on propriety could be seen as dangerous by some.

"Lizzie. You realise he'll likely be locked up for over a decade. Likely fifteen years."

She nods.

"And you're going to wait for him?"

Another nod.

"Liz, do you love him?"

She pauses, then writes, _"Likely. Probably. At least I am deeply infatuated. The room seems to tilt when I kiss him."_

"And what about him?"

" _He doesn't know if he has ever loved anyone other than his son, so he is unsure what this is. I think he loved Miss Cushing and do not doubt he is fully capable of giving his heart to someone."_

"Have you talked any about the next fifteen years?"

" _Allerdale Hall is ours to dispose of. Ezra gets the steam powered things. Everything else is up to us. I want to sell everything that I can out of it and save the money so he is not destitute when he returns. I haven't told him this, and don't you, either."_

Mr York sees a determination in his daughter's eyes that tells him this is not just a flight of fancy or an infatuation. Thomas Sharpe is her friend, some day to be her lover, and she is willing to wait these years. To tell her otherwise would mean she would rebel against him all the harder.

"Is his interest sudden or has he made this known to you before?"

" _It is not sudden. He wrote me a note, only to be read after he was dead. I read it the morning of his execution. And there have been other signs."_

"Well we can't stay in Carlisle long. Nathaniel doesn't like keeping the jail and Thaddeus has a tendency to get himself into trouble when he does the duty. I'm sorry, but this isn't going to be a long reunion. You're going to have to say goodbye at the end of today."

Lizzie finishes her breakfast, dresses and takes lunch with her father at a tavern nearby. She then returns to the prison.

Thomas rises from his desk to greet her, unsure as to if he should hug her or kiss her hand or something else entirely, something a little more distant. She solves the problem for him by hugging him and kissing his cheek.

"Good afternoon, Lizzie."

She smiles.

"Would you care to sit?"

She nods and he leads her to sit on the bed.

"Thank you for staying last night. It helped. I am in better spirits today. It is the first day in...possibly my entire life that I have not expected anyone to try to kill me. It is a strange feeling, to possibly be safe."

She draws out her notebook, _"I hope to spend many more nights with you in the future. But for now, I will happily hold last night in my heart. We can't stay in Carlisle much longer and Father says we will be heading home early tomorrow morning. If you would like me to stay the day with you here, I have been granted permission."_

"I would like nothing better."

They spend the rest of the day sitting close together, often simply enjoying being together, not doing anything at all. They doze for a few moments before supper and after, Mr York comes to collect his daughter. He finds her sitting in front of Thomas, his chin on her shoulder, his arms around her holding a book, reading to her. It takes a moment for him to realise that Thomas is reading an article on Arctic exploration. He sits at the desk, patiently waiting for him to finish.

Mr York likes what he sees. Lizzie, nestled against Thomas, entirely comfortable in his arms. Thomas' voice is soft, but animated, his passion for discovery evident through his narration. Every once in a while, she places her hand on the page and he stops. She taps her fingers against her palm and then gestures to an area on the page. He reads it again. If she still does not understand how it connects, she taps the side of her head and shrugs. Thomas patiently explains, referencing previous paragraphs and his vast knowledge of science and engineering. He makes sure she understands before recapping where they were and continuing the article.

When they are finished with the article, Thomas closes the magazine, "We will read more when you visit next. No doubt I will have something new to share with you when you return." He shows the cover to Mr York, "Popular Science Monthly. Lizzie insisted I read to her, though I am sure she is more than capable of understanding it entirely on her own."

She stands, straightening her dress. Mr York hands her a coat and she puts it on. Thomas stands to say his goodbye with a hug and a kiss on her cheek.

He shakes Mr York's hand, "Thank you, sir, for your trust. I do not deserve her, but I am ever grateful to be granted time. She is brilliant."

"That she is. And I'm glad you've seen it. The young men who've courted her haven't ever bothered to look that far."

Thomas notices his choice of words- courted- and nods in acknowledgment, "Again, thank you."

"We'll see you. Well, she will. Depending on the mischief made back home, it might be Nathaniel escorting her, instead of me. Stay steady. Mr Hayes and I wrote a note to tell the Home Secretary how cruel this was. You've likely got 15 years ahead of you. The world'll be different in 1917, but we'll try to help you keep up on things so you don't feel left behind."

He nods his appreciation; Mr York heads for the door where Mr Hayes is waiting with the key. Lizzie touches Thomas' arm as she passes, walking backwards towards the door, signing. She pokes the air, pinpricks in the sky, and sends pinched fingers across her starscape. With spread fingers, she paints the sky and mimes bursts of light. Thomas stares, trying to figure out her signs. She points to the Popular Science Monthly on the bed and repeats the signs.

His eyes light up, "Stars! The comet, that was the arc?"

She nods, grinning.

He grabs the issue and flips through, "This one- 'Comet's tails, the corona and the Aurora Borealis'- do you want me to read it next time?"

She laughs, a rough, nearly silent sound, but her happiness is clear.

"Yes, yes- I will. Together."

She steps back forward, kisses his cheek once more, and pats his chest over his heart.

"Goodbye, Miss York. I look forward to your letters and your visits."

She waves, and then the door is locked. Thomas returns to his bed. He sets Popular Science Monthly aside. He wants to read about the comets, too, but he has promised Lizzie they would read it together. The joy of discovering something with her is greater than his curiosity. He will wait.

 


	21. Years

Thomas passes the time between Lizzie's visits reading. He has Popular Science Monthly, but he also requests other journals. Mr York sends money so he can subscribe to Science and he reads the weekly issues with intensity, keeping a journal of notes on subjects that interest him most deeply. And, as years pass, he reads all he can on the developments on engines, especially the diesel engines that are powering ships and trains and moving all manner of heavy equipment across the world. And then he studies circuitry and the electrical engineering that these great machines use to power their vessels. He is determined to keep abreast of his field, to make himself useful when he is released.

Lizzie's visits fall into the pattern. She always arrives with the new month, coming on the first Monday, leaving early in the day on the following Wednesday. She travels Sunday night, knocking on Mr Hayes' door in the early hours of the dark morning when he is doing his paperwork. He takes her to the jail and unlocks Thomas' cell while he is still sleeping and she slips into his bed for a few hours of rest. The first time she does this, Thomas wakes confused, the presence in his small bed entirely unexpected. He wonders, perhaps, if someone is in the wrong cell, but then he recognizes the châtelaine at her hip, her notebook resting against her skirt.

They wake together, take breakfast, and spend the day catching up. They stay close, their bodies always touching, their most intimate contact a kiss. Lizzie's letters, however, are far less distant. She does not allow her father to read what she writes to Thomas anymore . She often describes her daydreams to him in long, detailed prose that leaves him flushed and reading only in short segments. He learns to read after supper, before bed, when he can let her words become his dreams. The more intimate her descriptions, the more difficult he finds it to keep his hands from wandering when she visits. But he does, and she does as well, even though she often hints at the letters when they converse in the cell, knowing they have power over him, her words a tease he clearly enjoys. This is one of the reasons he likes to read to her from his journals and books. It is time that he can focus on words that do not inspire him to want to remove her clothing.

At home in the village, Lizzie spends her time going through the extensive inventory of Allerdale Hall. The first things she removes are the steam engines and machinery, following through on Thomas' wishes that everything be given to Ezra. He is ecstatic, the gift far more than he could have ever hoped for. Thomas' books on the subject are extensive and his notes made during his construction of the mining machine detailed and precise. He spends hours slowly reading Thomas handwriting, deciphering his shorthand, and studying the machines..

She catalogues the library and writes to the universities to see who wants which books. And when they reply, she mails them. There are a few she keeps for herself. Medical texts, an herbal, and a particularly explicit book that has its own locked case. She finds the key on a ring in a room she determines to be Lucille's.

Mr York offers empty cells in the jail as her storage space, as Allerdale Hall is anything but dry. She writes to dealers in London and Glasgow, describing the antiques in detail, sketching architectural detail and the rooms she finds things in. They are interested and she sells hundreds of pieces, often in large lots, and often, once they see the house, more than she wrote to them about. They always want to see the house, even if the furnishings and tapestries are stored in the jail. Some want woodwork, others want the doors, window frames, fireplace mantles, or kitchen appliances. One wants the stone floor from the basement. She does not tell him of the bodies in the clay vats, but they find the hollow under one of the tiles and he is suspicious. She shows him the newspaper clipping from Lady Sharpe's death. Wide-eyed, he asks for the cleaver, offering hundreds of pounds for it and the clipping. She declines. Thomas' tragedy, she explains, cannot be sold- it already haunts him enough.

There are other things in the house she finds that are more personal. Lucille's room is a treasure trove of old and fine fabrics, dresses so slender they will never fit her, but textiles so beautiful she cannot bear to sell them, nor does she want to. These, she keeps. She is a fair seamstress, her aunt Helga a better one, and she imagines making things out of the fabric. But she determines first to ask Thomas what he feels about her wearing the textiles that once belonged to his sister.

She finds other things in Lucille's rooms. Moths pinned under glass, little knives, scalpels, arranged in a drawer as though they were ready for dissection. A gold pen she knows does not belong to the house- it is marked E.C.. She packages it and mails it to Buffalo, hoping it will find its owner. The most disturbing find, though, is a drawer of human hair and shriveled fingers. She does not disturb these trophies. She knows who they belonged to, but again, she wants to ask Thomas what to do.

He does not seem to have a bedroom of his own, and she finds his personal effects tucked in the workshop. There are so few of them, but she sets aside a wool scarf and fingerless gloves, placing them in her wardrobe alongside a fine velvet jacket and a silk vest so smooth that it feels like liquid in her hands. She is careful with his clothes- with as little as he possesses after the dissolution of his family estate, she wants to make sure she does not leave him feeling without a foundation to stand on.

The portrait of his mother she takes from its frame and rolls carefully, tying it with a string and tucking it in the attic. Some things she does not want in her room. She asks Thaddeus to make a box for the cleaver and places it, and the newspaper clipping, beside the portrait. Thaddeus also builds her a lid for Lucille's drawer and it, too, is consigned to the attic.

By the end of three years, the house is an empty shell, stripped of most of its ornamentation. She finds builders and asks them to dismantle it. She makes a fair penny selling the timber. She then searches for a buyer for the mine itself with Thomas' blessing.

Years pass with three days of Lizzie in Carlisle every month, Thomas studying when she is not there, and Lizzie at home in Carlisle managing the disposal of the estate. She tells him most of what happens only after it is final, a blessing, he says, so he does not have time to protest or to cling to anything out of misplaced sentimentality. When she asks about the dresses, he hesitates. There are some reasons he does not want her to wear them, largely because he does not want to be reminded of Lucille's body when he dreams of touching Lizzie's, but at the same time, he yearns to see her in fabrics so elegant. He grants her permission to use the fabric, but asks that nothing look as it once did by the time she wears it.

The decade passes more quickly than either of them expect and, by its end, they are no less attached to one another than when they began. Thomas thinks they have grown closer, and Lizzie thoroughly considers him a member of the family. Nathaniel has often accompanied her on visits and has had time of his own with Thomas. While initially wary, Nathaniel has come to call him his brother, even if it is at first only because he considers Lizzie his sister and they are so clearly very close. Given time, they begin to become friends, and Thomas delights in hearing what Ezra is doing with his steam powered machinery. And Lizzie delights in time with her brother. They take their first electric trolley ride and visit the brand new cinema. She describes it in depth to Thomas and brings him anything she can to help him figure out how it works.

On a few visits, Mr York is able to accompany his daughter. When he does, he leaves the young folks, as he calls them, alone for most of the trip, insisting only that they take supper together at least once. Thomas comes to see Mr York as a mentor and friend, someone he can depend on in a way he has never before had. There is a question, though, that even after a decade nags in the back of his mind. How did he stay so calm in the execution chamber? Gerry he understood. Gerry walks men to their deaths even still. But Mr York seemed steady in the same way Mr Angel was steady and this has Thomas wondering just what prepared him for that moment. He has not, however, found the courage to ask.

They hear of the sinking of the great ocean liner in 1912, and while it is a tragedy, it does not effect life in Carlisle that greatly. Thomas, ever the engineer, makes sketches of the hull and tries to determine by what manner the ship struck the iceberg based on the reports of how long it took to sink. Lizzie loves watching him work, the walls of his cell covered in chalk drawings as he decides he needs space larger than the paper he is provided. She thinks it is a sort of madness, perhaps, to be so consumed by the figuring-out of something, but it is a madness he thoroughly enjoys and that fascinates her. She wanders from drawing to drawing, inspecting his notes, as he runs calculations on steel and ice, muttering numbers to himself as he works.

"The steel grade is all wrong- they can't have used what they were supposed to. It wouldn't have went down so fast. Someone took a shortcut and used lower quality materials. That would explain everything..."

She rubs his shoulders as he sits at his desk.

"I wonder if they will ever find the wreckage. Raise it up. I wonder what it looks like where it hit. Did the boilers explode with the rush of cold water? They would have to. Did the rivets hold or did the hull disintegrate with the force? Hot water, cold water- steam engines do not like the change in temperature. And if the steel was inferior..."

She wraps her arms around his shoulder and kisses his cheek.

"Of course, it's irrelevant that I know this. What good would it do? Every ship builder in the nation likely knows it, too."

She steps beside him, arm still around his shoulder, and pats his leg. He slides the chair out from the desk and she sits on his lap, drawing out her notebook.

" _But you enjoy the work. You enjoy the mathematics, the thrill of calculation. And you are keeping your mind sharp while in here. That is the value of this knowledge. Have you ever considered working the shipyards?"_ She has not yet told him that he has a fair sum sitting in the vault of the bank in Carlisle. That is a surprise she wants to give him when he returns home, a gift for a new life.

"No. I have no experience with the practicalities of the new diesel engines. I am behind the times, dear Lizzie. My theoretical knowledge is vast, but I fear I could not compete with the younger workers. I am forty-five years old. I am not so strong- I never have been, but I am certainly not what I was when I was younger. Even when you met me."

" _You have kept up on theory, though- that has to count for something. There is a place for you in this world, and it is not_ _this_ _place."_

He smiles and kisses her chin, "No, it is not. It is wherever you are. And whether our great things are bigger than the village or merely within it, I will be happy."

" _You could always be a witch."_ She smiles.

"I would have a delightful teacher."

" _Rebecca says I am ready for an apprentice, if I wish one. She will be there to help me. And this is how witching works. We pass it on to those interested and hopefully, eventually, one of those people is younger so we can keep it going for the next generation. Rebecca had no children. So her family line of witches, which dates back centuries, ends with her. And I take it up."_

"That is a prestigious honour. I will be glad to carry it with you, if you allow."

" _I will. But you will have to learn some things that are not so pleasant to you. Dr McMichael brought us your sister's tea tins."_

Thomas pales a little, "Oh."

" _I know what was in them. I know how it worked. She mixed more than just the berries of the firethorn in the tea. I was suspicious when I read the confessions and she said that was what she used. Firethorn will make one sick, for certain, but the timing was off. There was cuckoo pint in it, and also hemlock. Secondary ingredients, yes, but enough to elicit the effects she was hoping for. It would have been something she had to perfect. I have her notes. Was your sister a witch?"_

"No. She would have never been allowed. But she was fascinated by poisons. By death, by nature. She would have been a brilliant chemist."

" _Based on the precise proportions in her tea, I think she already was a brilliant chemist, even if unschooled in it. She was self-taught, and had a natural inclination. This is part of what witches do, too. Can you handle learning this?"_ She is serious in her question, unsure if it will help him to understand it or if it will bring back memories that would haunt him until his guilt stops him from functioning.

"I think I can. And if it becomes too much, I will tell you. Where you lead me, my dearest Lizzie, I will follow and I will seek understanding, even in the darkest arts you can teach. Perhaps it will help me understand her. Perhaps, too, I could build things for the village- machinery for wells, pumps, and possibly electric lights." She smiles and leans into him and he relaxes his head against her chest, "The future is so vast. Things are changing so quickly."

During his twelfth year imprisoned, things change even more dramatically. The world is at war, and England prepares to send her sons to the continent to their death. Many sign up to fight, and Lizzie reports that the boys in the village go joyfully off for god and country. But she is worried that it will be far more devastating than they can imagine. In 1915, Zeppelins appear over England and the war comes home. The Germans blockade with submarines and the great shipyards push their production as fast as it will go so England, too, can fight his underwater war. Technology speeds forward, and soon war becomes even more terrifying when the Germans use chlorine gas on the Canadian and French troops at Ypres. Lizzie worries for the young men who have gone off so happily into hell. They will come home burned and scarred if they come home at all.

Then the Germans sink the Lusitania and it is brought home that this is a very different kind of war, where civilians might find themselves dead from the German submarines just for traveling, and it all seems to come home that they are very close to being invaded. That the Germans could make landfall in Great Britain terrifies many. Lizzie, however, keeps visiting Carlisle with little heed paid to the few people who ask her, when they see her on the trolley, how she is brave enough to make the trip when there could be German soldiers along the path.

She is more afraid of trains that criss-cross the countryside after the Quintinshill Train Disaster. A train of Scottish troops ploughs into a local train and the entire mess is then rammed by other oncoming trains. Over 200 people die, many of them soldiers. The hospitals in Carlisle fill and the civic response is great. Lizzie offers her services to the hospital, writing to them that the people of her village will send their canned vegetables and she will cook for them if they need it. When she and Nathaniel ride for Carlisle, they bring produce, greens, and what the villagers had put up from the last season. When she is not with Thomas, she is cooking late into the night.

News comes from the front that there is an ammunition shortage and the news in Carlisle is that there will be a new factory opening on the border between England and Scotland. Men are needed for the war, but so are women, and the factory will need every worker they can recruit from across the Commonwealth. While they wait for it to be finished, the war demands more soldiers, and in February of 1916, men are conscripted- every man, between age eighteen and forty-one, is eligible for the front. Nathaniel and Ezra decide that to avoid being separated, they will join the army together, excited, at least, by the promise that they will serve together.

Lizzie sits up late nights with Nathaniel as he tells her his fears. She knows she is the only one who will ever hear this. In public, the boys are playful, excited to be serving their king, and ready to do their part for the war. And after she returns to her father's house, the rooms dark, he long in bed, she sits at the piano and plays her music for an audience of none.

Lizzie makes her first visit to Carlisle alone in April. The new factory, making gun cotton, cordite, has opened. It is the longest factory in the world, stretching for miles, the buildings spaced to avoid a chain reaction if one of them explodes. An entire city has grown up around the factory to house the workers and take care of their needs. Many of them live in Carlisle as well.

When Thomas wakes with her beside him, he finds her laying awake, her arm over her forehead as she stares at the ceiling. She is never awake when he rouses and he is immediately worried. He turns toward her and slips his arm around her waist.

"What are you thinking?"

"Nathaniel and Ezra have gone to war."

"Oh god, Lizzie..."

She is crying, her eyes locked on the stone above, "I am going to work."

"Oh?"

"The cordite factory. They need women. I must-" she coughs "-must do my part, too. For them." And she starts coughing again, hard enough that her back lifts from the bed.

Thomas turns her sideways and pulls her close, rubbing her back until the coughing subsides, "That is dangerous work. And caustic. It may agitate your cough. Please, reconsider this." She opens her mouth to speak and he gently rests a hand against her lips, "Rest. Write. I don't want you to hurt yourself. It isn't that I don't love that you gift me your voice, but..."

She nods, curls against him, and closes her eyes. He strokes her hair and she falls asleep. Thomas cannot, though, so he holds her and hopes that she feels warm and safe. She won't be allowed her notebook in the cordite factory. It's metal spine is too great a risk- any metal is forbidden out of fear of a spark. He has read how it is made, and the process is dangerous, the acidic air enough to damage skin and flesh. He watches her sleep and hopes that it will not harm her.

 


	22. Keep the Home Fires Burning

Lizzie goes to work in the factory. She takes up residence in Gretna, the village created for the influx of workers. She is assigned to the press house, where she uses large presses to force the finished cordite paste through the holes that spew it out in long strands, long cords. Other women dry the cords, cut them, and ready them for transportation. It is the least dangerous job in the factory, and one in which she is unlikely to need to yell a warning to a coworker. Not that she thinks it would do any good. She knows what this is they make, this gun cotton, this devil's porridge. Any spark and a building will blow, killing everyone inside. No metal, not even in their clothing.

She hates the fear of explosion, but continually reminds herself that her brother and her friend are somewhere on the Continent, probably being shot at on a regular basis. And, if the reports are true, possibly at risk from a gas that will fill their trench and kill them by burning their lungs from the inside. Making cordite seems like a minor risk, and at least death by explosion would likely be swift.

She works every day of the week and her visits to Thomas move to weekends only. He worries about her constantly and throws himself into his studies to avoid thinking of the danger the cordite is to her health and life. But he also feels helpless knowing that she is working for the war effort and he is stuck in prison. Despite her closeness, he still writes. His letters take on a different tone, one with a greater urgency. With German submarines always somewhere just offshore and rumours that Zeppelins might come over the country at any moment, no one is safe. Her replies are reassuring, calm, despite the fact that she is in a far riskier location than he is.

The news from the front is not good and in the warmth of summer there is a battle at Somme that changes Lizzie's world. In August, word reaches the village and Mr York travels to Gretna to talk to her in person. When he has her sitting in the workers' cottage, he takes both her hands.

"Liz...there's bad news. Nathaniel's been shot. He's in bad shape. They're sending him home if he survives. But Ezra's dead."

She collapses against him and sobs, trying desperately to keep quiet enough to hold off her coughing, but it does not work and she eventually cannot catch her breath. Her father carries her to her bed, holds her until she passes out from the exhaustion. He sits on watch until she wakes and it all starts again. She tries to eat supper, but vomits it into the sink. She falls asleep leaning against him late in the night.

When morning comes, she washes her face, dresses in her uniform, and goes on shift, her face as blank as she can keep it. The other women on her crew know what has happened. This is a look all of them have seen before. Lizzie returns to her father in the evening, changes out of her uniform and falls asleep. Mr York sits up beside her reading. When she wakes for supper, she writes one thing in her notebook.

" _How will I ever tell Thomas?"_

"Would you like me to tell him?"

She shakes her head. She eats little. That evening, she writes a letter to Thomas telling him she will not be able to visit on the upcoming weekend.

Thomas is reading the letter while Mr Hayes lingers at his cell door, "Mr Sharpe- I've got some news for you. The Crown's sent a letter- every man's needed for the war. You're within a few years of the end of your sentence. They want all men fit for it free to lend their hands to the work. So you're out as of Friday."

"That's in two days. Will a letter reach the village in time?" He does not know that Mr York visits Gretna. Lizzie's letter only says she cannot visit. It gives no reason why.

"No. You're going to have to make your own way or wait in Carlisle until the letter gets there."

"I suppose I should write quickly, then."

"I'll wait."

Thomas hastily scrawls a note and addresses an envelope. Mr Hayes takes it so he can send it with the post.

Lizzie cannot stand staying longer than she has to at the factory, a reminder of why her friend is dead, her brother possibly dying. After her shift on Thursday, Mr York takes her home for the weekend. They will travel again on Sunday; she will sleep in the carriage on the way to Gretna.

Mr Hayes gives Thomas a satchel for the books and journals he cannot bear to leave behind and packages the others for him so they can be shipped to the village. He tightly rolls the quilt and foregoes carrying most of his possessions in favour of it. His papers, a change of clothing, and a book are with the quilt in a bag slung on his back when he walks out into the bright daylight for the first time in fourteen years. He is overwhelmed by the movement, the life. He has no idea what to do, but he asks a police officer which road he should take to Gretna. The officer points him in the right direction and Thomas begins walking in hopes of finding Lizzie in the miles of cordite factory.

On Saturday, Mr York receives Thomas' letter.

Thomas, meanwhile, has inquired at Gretna and been told that Lizzie is not there for the weekend. By sheer luck, one of the other press women happens to be at the guardhouse when he asks. He thanks her, and then retraces his steps back to Carlisle. He is exhausted, but he knows there is little he can do but keep walking. He has no money, he is hungry, he is tired, but everything he wants is waiting in a little village many miles away. So he tries to remember what path it was that brought him into town so many years before and sets out.

Mr York shows Lizzie the letter and she looks concerned, a reaction he was not anticipating, _"Where is he now? He hasn't any money, he can't hire a horse or a room."_

It dawns on him that Thomas has been turned out into the world with a head full of knowledge but no means to come home. He hands the page to her and goes to ready his horses.

It is late at night and Thomas feels entirely unsure of his path. He thinks he recognizes the landscape, but he can't be certain, and a damp chill has set in, so much that he shivers without his jacket. He is exhausted, but sleeping along the road seems like a terrible idea. He is hungry enough that his stomach aches and his head swims, dizzy, but this is not a new feeling. He remembers the starving years in Allerdale Hall. He keeps walking, staggering, hoping that he will find his way home. Or, at least he hopes it will be home. He has nothing else to return to.

He hears hoofbeats ahead and sees carriage lanterns swinging, growing closer by the moment. He steps to the side of the road and leans on a tree. It is a good rest. He keeps his head lowered as the bright lights' glare hurts his eyes. The carriage slows as it passes him.

"Thomas?"

He raises his head, knowing the voice, "Mr York?"

"Thank god. I was worried I wouldn't be around to find you."

"I wasn't sure I'd make it home. Did you get my letter?"

"Yes. Come aboard. How long have you been walking?"

"I walked to Gretna. Then I walked here."

"The entire time."

"Yes."

Mr York takes his bag and tosses it in the wagon. He then invites Thomas to sit beside him.

Thomas declines, "As much as I never want to ride a prisoner in this wagon again, I need to sleep and I can do that back there better than up here. I've been walking without much rest for over a day."

"How you're still standing is beyond me. But I thought you might be tired. There are a couple of blankets back there. And a basket of food."

"Thank you. Infinitely. For...everything. And for coming for me."

"Get some rest, son. It's a long ride back to the village."

Thomas doesn't bother with the bench, collapsing into a heap on the floor, tugging the quilt from his bag and cuddling up in the blankets. He barely stays sitting up long enough to dig through the basket of food. Bread, cheese, fresh vegetables, some a little limp from the heat, but it is still some of the best food he has eaten in years. He falls asleep, a hunk of bread still in his hand.

When they arrive in the village , the sun is blinding bright and Mr York is far beyond tired. He is glad his horses know the way home on their own. They are far more tired than they should be, too, and he hopes that their pace was gentle enough on them. Thomas is still sleeping when he opens the door, the horses in their stable, Thaddeus looking after them. Mr York steps into the carriage and packs the basket, what little is left of it, and shakes his shoulder. Thomas slowly sits up.

"Welcome home, son."

Thomas' mind clicks back on and he nearly jumps to his feet and steps down from the carriage, forgetting his bag in the process, the quilt in his arms. Mr York carries it for him, along with the blankets and the basket. It is a warm day and Thomas realizes just how dirty he feels and is immediately embarrassed by his condition. Mr York gestures for him to follow.

"Come. A bath. Lizzie's at the Doyle house. You'll feel better after you're cleaned up a bit."

Once everything is in the house, Mr York leads him upstairs to draw a bath, the quilt left on the piano bench. He finds clothes, lays everything out, and goes to make coffee and breakfast.

Thomas cannot wait to see Lizzie and he washes quickly, dresses, shaves, and combs out his hair, and standing in front of the mirror to inspect himself. He is fourteen years older than when he last stood in this place and while the room has not changed much, he has. His face is more gaunt and grey peppers his hair, still cut as it was when he left Allerdale Hall. He is nearly fifty. His joints sometimes ache from the years in the cool of the stone cells. His clothing fits differently, and he notices for the first time just how much thinner he is. The food in the prison was certainly not as bad as starving in Allerdale Hall, but it certainly wasn't enough to keep him from becoming more angled. He thinks his face looks too harsh, the bones just a little too distinct.

There is a light knock on the door. Mr York calls to him that there is food ready if he is hungry. Thomas gladly joins him for breakfast. He returns upstairs after to look out over the village for a moment, the summer sun burning off the morning mist. Everything feels new. And then he sees Lizzie running across the street to her father's house. His heart leaps into his throat and a moment of deep doubt consumes his thoughts. They have only ever known each other while he was confined. What if they cannot maintain this relationship? What if he cannot live out here? And where will he go if he cannot? He grips the window frame, looking down at the street, but not really seeing what is happening, his mind inward.

Hurried footsteps on the stairs bring him out of his thoughts and he turns to see Lizzie, her face serious, running towards him. He expected joy, but she looks as though she might cry. He opens his arms and catches her. She burrows against his chest and the tears come quickly. He leads her to the bench at the far end of the hallway and sits with her.

"It is so good to see you, Lizzie."

She nods, still crying.

"But what has darkened your mood so? I expected a happy reunion."

She wipes her eyes, stands, and holds out her hand. He accepts and follows her into her bedroom. She sits down on the side of her bed and pats beside her. Thomas hesitates. This is her space. A private space. No longer a cell where he is caged and therefore trusted by virtue of being guarded. She pats again and he sits.

"I'm sorry, I just...I've never..."

She picks up her notebook, _"You've never been in anyone else's bedroom before, let alone the bedroom of a woman you are very close to."_

"Yes."

" _This space is mine, but I intend to offer you sanctuary here whenever you wish it.."_

"Thank you. But tell me what hurts you so."

She takes a deep breath and writes, _"I have bad news. It is hard to say, but harder to see written."_ She drops back on the bed, the notebook tossed aside, and tugs on his arm so he does the same. He glances toward the door. She whispers, "Father isn't coming."

"I'm sorry. I just...this is very new."

"I know."

"Please, Lizzie. Write."

"No." She curls up beside him and he turns to face her, gathering her in his arms, "Ez is dead." The tears begin again, "And Nathaniel isn't doing well." She cries so hard that she starts coughing and he does not know what to do. He rubs her back, trying to soothe her.

Mr York enters with a mug and Thomas' quilt; Thomas tries to sit up, to put some distance between them, but Mr York shakes his head as he sets the mug aside, "No, you stay there with her. At least until we have to move her so she can drink." He drapes the quilt over the footboard.

"I don't know how to take care of her."

Mr York meets Thomas' eyes, "You're going to learn, son." Her father sits on the end of the bed and watches them. Thomas tucks her close, rubbing her back, his face nestled against her hair. He hums to her, an approximation of her own song. Mr York wonders how he learned it and how he remembers it. There was no piano for her in the Carlisle prison. When it is time, when she has calmed enough that she can move a little, even if she shakes when she does, Thomas untangles himself from her and carefully sits her up. She leans heavily on him. Mr York hands her a steaming mug, "Honey, lemon, and hot water. Slow. As always." She sips the drink and nods her thanks.

"I think you need to rest. Your father can tell me details. This has drained you."

She lays down on the pillow. Mr York hands him the quilt; he tucks it around her. He kisses her forehead before following Mr York out of the room.

"How did it happen?"

"The line of our boys marched across the no-man's land straight into machine gun fire. Ezra fell fast. Nathaniel's in bad shape, but he stayed still, knowing that playing dead might save his life. They said he was shot in the chest, the stomach, and a bullet grazed his face."

"Good god, it's a wonder he's alive."

"Some of the bullets that hit him passed through Ezra first. The one that tore open Ez' throat is the one that only grazed Nathaniel's cheek. I know the man leading his unit."

Thomas feels weak, "Did...did Ezra step in front intentionally?"

"That I don't know. He was supposed to be beside Nathaniel. He's always been protective. I think maybe he did."

"Oh..."

"I haven't told Lizzie all the details. She hasn't asked and she's having a hard enough time coping as it is."

Thomas sits on the hall bench, "I hardly knew him, but I feel as though my heart will break. And Lizzie..."

"She wants to go back to the factory for her shift on Monday. I don't know how she's going to do it. She says she can't stand to think about the war and what it's doing to boys like ours, but she feels she has to do something to give them a chance."

"Mr York...I have only honourable intentions, if Lizzie and I can hold this now that we will see each other far more often. Perhaps I can help the war effort to give her time to grieve and rest."

"Maybe she'd allow it. It's a fair distance away, but the shipyards in Barrow-in-Furness are always looking for men, especially men who know engines. You'll find a place there. But you won't be home much."

"I think I need to be with her, sir. They released me so I could help. But I don't know how to be the man I need to be for her and to serve 'god and country' as well."

Mr York sighs, "Don't think so far ahead yet. Just go rest with her. That's how you can take care of her right now."

"My intentions-"

"I know. But I can tell you here and now that hers aren't." As Thomas searches for words, Mr York smiles, "I'm no fool, son. I know what was in her letters, why she didn't want me to see them. She's not a girl anymore. She's been a grown woman for quite some time. She needs _you_ , not her father. Go. You two will figure this out."

 


	23. Finding One's Place

Thomas returns to Lizzie's bedroom. She is curled on the bed, quiet, and he wonders if she is asleep until she shifts upon hearing the door click shut. He kneels beside her bed so he can be eye to eye with her, his arms crossed under his chin as he rests on the edge of her mattress. She touches his hair, running her fingers through the damp locks.

"Thank you."

He places his fingers on her lips, "You're welcome. But rest." She smiles and kisses his fingertips.

"I'm scared for Nathaniel. He's the only brother I've ever had."

She touches his cheek and traces a line down it.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

She touches her own cheek where her tears are still damp and then his, leaving little trails down from his eyes.

"Cry. Are you asking if I need to?"

She nods.

"I don't know. I don't know how to feel this."

She finds her notebook, _"Just do. Don't make a right or wrong out of it. You will feel what you will feel. And I will be right here."_

"May I join you right there?"

She nods and he climbs onto the bed, slipping under the sheets and quilt behind her despite the summer warmth. He buries his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, one arm around her waist. There is something different about her hair, though, something harsh. A scent not hers. It also feels brittle, rough against his skin- he noticed it when he held her as she coughed, but didn't think to identify why. Then it dawns on him. Cordite. She has not been working only in the press house.

"Lizzie...you've been moved to another place in the factory?"

She shakes her head.

"Your hair is brittle. You've been around the acids."

" _The girls in the cotton rooms are in far worse shape. They need breaks, or their gums start to decay from the fumes. I took a few shifts for them. We all do."_

"Oh no..." His heart sinks and he holds her snug against him, one arm around her waist, the other across her chest.

" _I'm sorry. But I couldn't just let them stay there without time to rest. Our building is much safer."_

He pulls her from her side to her back and she looks over at him, "Don't go back. Please. I'll find work in the shipyards, I'll make bullets, I'll do anything I have to so that I might take care of you and serve in your place, but please, stay here, where it's safe."

" _But why should any of us be safe? Nathaniel isn't. Ezra wasn't. And I have to do something, too."_

"Let me. I'll split my time between Barrow-in-Furness and the village. It won't be ideal, but I'll send every cent back so we can build a life here after the war. Please, Lizzie. You've sacrificed your health to this. Neither of them would want you in harm's way. That's why they went to fight- to defend the people they love."

She turns to face him and cuddles against his chest, "And what if it never ends?"

"All wars end. Even the long ones."

They lay together in the still of the afternoon, the sun warming the bed. She starts to fall asleep, but wipes her eyes and rests her hand on his waist. He smiles at her and kisses her forehead. She kisses his lips, her mouth open, quietly eager. Thomas does not resist. The door is closed. Lizzie is inviting. And he has dreamt of time absolutely alone with her for far too long. He clutches her close as they explore lips, tongues, skin, his hands inching down her back until he finds the curve of her rear. He slides his hands over her skirt slowly, waiting for her to stop him, wondering if she will. She does not. Her own hands inch lower on his chest, down his stomach, slipping under the fabric to loose the buttons. He sighs as her hands meet his bare skin, working their way up across his chest and then back down again, until one rests under his side, the other slowly moving lower.

He breaks from her kiss and rests his forehead against hers, "Please. Touch." He unbuttons his trousers and takes her hand, guiding her fingers between his legs, "Have you ever done this before?"

"Yes. but he was not nearly so gentle." Nor did that man expect such a slow progression, an exploration, and he did not expect her to communicate her wants or her hesitations, either. But she does not tell Thomas. She cups soft skin, warm skin, in her hand and gently kneads. He gasps, a little involuntary thing. She smiles, proud that she has the capacity to cause such a sound to escape his lips. She slides her hand around his hip and tugs on his waistband. He takes the hint and pushes his trousers down. She runs her hand over his thigh and then follows the curve of his pelvic bone until she is back where she started, stroking.

Thomas rolls over her and she pulls the sheet over him; he nudges her legs open under her skirts and she relaxes as he eases his chest down on hers, "A moment, then may I remove your clothes?"

She smiles and drapes her arms around his neck, inviting him in for a kiss or, perhaps, a few dozen. She gladly sits up for him a few minutes later and allows him to unbutton her blouse, tugging her out of her layers until she is wearing only the well-worn, battered corset and her bloomers. He unties the bloomers, his lips trailing along her leg as he eases them down around her hips, her knees, her ankles.

Lizzie is certain that this is where things will change- that this is where he will lay her down, find his rhythm, and forget that she is here, silent, but still a person seeking her own pleasure. Instead, Thomas lays down and pulls her over him, guiding her hips over his. She winces as he penetrates her. He stops. She takes her time lowering over him, easing into this new and uncomfortable position. He waits, massaging her thighs, until she begins to relax. He unhooks her corset busk and drops it off the bed, her body free beneath the light camisole under it. He slides his hands up her sides and rests them against her breasts. With a little teasing from his thumbs on her nipples, she begins to rock and they find their rhythm together, losing sense of time, of the boundaries of their bodies, and all thoughts outside of the moment they share.

When he climaxes within her, he pulls her down to his chest, panting, whispering her name, moaning. She stays still for a few moments and then starts to roll off him. He stops her.

"We aren't done. You haven't had your moment." She tilts her head, surprised, "Have you ever...?"

She nods and sits up, reaching her own hand down between her legs before patting her chest.

"Only by yourself."

She nods.

He lays her to one side on her back, withdrawing from her, "Oh, we certainly must change that." She beams as he bends low to kiss her neck, her collar bone, her chest. His lips play across her breasts, lingering on each nipple, a tease that sends a shudder down her spine and urges her legs to spread. Fluttering kisses down her stomach, he takes her hips in his hands and licks her clit, pausing to see how she reacts. She closes her eyes, waiting. He laps gently, slowly, down her folds, his tongue probing her open, searching for the moment when she will either tell him to stop or urge him to continue.

She does not tell him to stop. One hand grasps at his, prying it from her hip, weaving her fingers in his as she arches to meet his lips, his tongue, everything that is worshiping her. She moans and grasps for his other hand, her toes curled against the sheets, her hips rocking with his strokes. When she clenches, he draws back his mouth and frees one of his hands, slipping it deep, stroking slowly as she shudders, his lips finding hers. He tastes of salt.

Exhausted, she pants against him, unwilling to move.

"I have waited fourteen years for this and my god, Lizzie, thank you."

She nods and hugs him tight. He goes to move his hand, but she catches him, pressing it in place.

"Ah...not ready yet?"

She laughs and shakes her head. He waits and they rest.

Lizzie sighs and draws out his fingers, "Thank you."

"How does it compare to your imagination? I remember your letters."

"Better."

Thomas is immensely pleased with himself, "Before we leave the room, I think we should clean up a little, though, as there are things stuck to both of us that I would rather your father not see."

She giggles and pushes him away from her. He rolls a little too far and falls off the bed, laughing as he staggers to his feet and searches for discarded clothing. He puts in all on a heap beside her as she sits up.

"We'd better get this right or we're going to be in a bit of trouble."

She takes his shirt, rolling up the sleeves, buttoning it down her chest.

"I don't think I can fit into your dress."

She tosses his pants at his face.

"To be fair, I think I should clean up a bit, first. Is there a washbasin?"

She points to a small door he hadn't noticed before, "Bathroom."

"And how do I know it is not occupied by someone else? Namely, your father?"

She shoves his arm playfully and rolls her eyes, miming knocking.

"Ah. Well that would be the simple thing to do, wouldn't it?" She giggles as she stands, catching herself on him as her legs remember how to stand.

They clean themselves and return to her bed, Lizzie wearing Thomas' shirt, he in only his trousers. She is falling asleep against him when he asks if she has that little cottage yet that she dreamed of when they were younger. She shakes her head.

"I will build it for you. I will go to work in the shipyards and I will bring home my pay so that you can have your witch's cottage, even if you split your time between this house and it, depending on if your father needs help in the jail."

Lizzie shakes her head and reaches beside the bed for something- a ledger. She hands it to him.

"What is this?"

She opens to the first page and taps the column listing assets. He reads through them. A piano. Tapestries. A claw foot bathtub. Books. Hundreds of books. A stove. Beds. Woodwork. He looks at the figures in the columns to the right. The sale price, a date, and the total earned sum. Something clicks.

"This is Allerdale Hall."

She turns to a later page and points to another entry- one gate and entry archway. It sold for a pretty sum.

He flips through the items. Thousands, of things. And every one of them has a sum next to it and a total that grows and grows, sometimes incrementally, sometimes by leaps and bounds.

"What...what does this mean?"

She finds her notebook, discarded on the floor, _"You don't have to work a day in your life if you don't want to. Even the land fetched a strong sum."_

He turns to the last page and his eyes grow wide as he realises just how much money she collected for the estate, "My god...this...this..."

" _Is all in a bank account in Carlisle. I drove a hard bargain on some of these, giving up a little on things like the floor tiles in the basement to leverage a higher price for other items. You were living in a fortune. Some of the wood went to build Ezra's steam shed...but he won't be home to use it again."_

He sees the tears rise in her eyes and wipes them away, "Would you like to learn? I know they are moving towards other forms of power, more powerful ones, ones that can move submarines across the oceans, but there will always be a romance in steam."

She smiles, then it falls, _"I do poorly with mathematics. I don't think I can learn engineering. Your diagrams were always so precise. And it won't be useful to the war effort."_

"You can learn. I will teach you. And whatever you struggle with, I will help. This is for you, Lizzie, not the war. If you ask, I will serve at the shipyards to further the cause, even with a fortune to my name."

" _I don't know. I want to help. I feel as though I_ _must_ _, but at the same time...I don't want you to go. I have been away from you too long and I would yearn for you every day. Do you want to leave?"_

Thomas shakes his head, laughing, happier than he thinks he has ever been, "No. No I don't. And you won't go back to Gretna. We can send aid to the front other ways- food, medical supplies, whatever we can purchase or fund. We'll make our peace here. I will make you a home- your very own cottage. We'll send for timber as soon as you and I sit down to sketch plans. God, Lizzie...I never thought life would feel so...free."

" _I doubt there is any timber to spare, with the war. But there is a pile of structural beams still from Allerdale Hall. Big, thick support timbers and some of the other wood. Perhaps you can at least start with that."_

"Yes! Yes! We will build you a place of magic and joy, grant it new life!" He is so excited that he can hardly contain himself. He kisses her and they tangle, playful, under the blankets, giggling, tickling, kissing, and eventually calming, curled up together. They fall asleep.

They nap through lunch, only rousing when Mr York knocks on the door to tell them they need to come down for supper. Once dressed, they sit down together around the table and Lizzie tells her father she is not going back to Gretna; he is visibly relieved. Thomas asks if he knows about the ledger- about how much Lizzie collected for the estate. He does not. When Lizzie tells him, he starts laughing and clasps Thomas' shoulder.

"Son, if you ever needed to reassure an old man that you can take care of his daughter, you just did well. Or, rather, she did very well and you're the better for it."

"She is a smart businesswoman, Mr York."

"A witch who drives a hard bargain. I think that's a good combination, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I do. And I hope to have your further blessing when I ask for your assistance in building her a cottage wherever she wishes to have it."

"And are you going to inhabit this cabin with her?"

"Only if she asks, sir."

Mr York nods, "Good answer, son. Good answer. Before we discuss anything further, though, I have cake and coffee in the kitchen."

And so cake and coffee it is. After, Mr York finds his pencils and a large sheet of vellum. He lays everything out on the dining table and together, they begin to design an octagonal cottage, Lizzie suggesting things in notes on the side of the sketch, her father reading them so Thomas can keep drafting and sketching without interruption. Lizzie makes rough little line drawings of things she cannot describe and Thomas renders them beautifully from what she considers crude attempts at mimicry. He later tells her that they communicate exactly what they need to. They are, for their purposes, perfect.

She beams up at him from her chair as he sketches. Mr York watches. They are so clearly in love, so clearly happy. It is a reminder that even in the darkness of war, there is still light in the world.

 


	24. Laid to Rest

In 1918, conscription is extended to all men under the age of 51. Thomas panics, no longer safe from recruitment. He is still 50, his birthday a few months away. Nathaniel has been home for over a year and he tires to calm his brother by telling him the front can't be so bad now, they must have learned from the mistakes they made when he was shot, but it does little to comfort, especially given the scars on his face that remind Thomas what he has been through. Every time Mr York picks up the post, Thomas dreads what might be in it.

On his 51st birthday, he celebrates more than just another year of survival and one more year that he is free and happy, living with his dear Lizzie in the cottage he has built for her at the edge of the village. They often visit the great steam house not far away behind Nathaniel's home. Whenever he does, whenever he takes Lizzie there to teach her the wonders of what can be created by tools driven by the lineshaft that runs the length of the building, they stay for supper, helping Nathaniel feel a part of the family even though his house is too empty.

Victoria occasionally visits, too. She is quieter since Ezra's death, and she does not play the piano as often as she used to. With news of the influenza outbreak claiming lives on the front and at home, she takes her nursing credentials to the Army and finds herself on a battlefield in France treating soldiers stricken with disease. Every one of them reminds her of Ezra and when she writes home, her letters are despondent and only get worse as the war, and the outbreak, continue. She works tirelessly, on long shifts with little time for sleep, until she is ill, languishing in her own hospital. Within a few weeks, she has stopped writing. Helga is worried about her daughter and writes a letter to the hospital. The news she gets in return breaks her heart- in the time between when her letter arrived and when the response was sent, Victoria has died. She will be buried with the others that have died of the outbreak. They cannot risk sending her home and spreading the disease if the infection has not died. Because of how isolated they are, the village has not yet seen the epidemic. They make a conscious effort to keep it that way.

The war ends. There is no big parade in the village. There are few young men still abroad who will be coming home. But they do build a victory arch to welcome them home and they hold a memorial for those who will never return.

Mr York stands at the front of the village church with Brother Morton, his head bowed as the monk offers a prayer. When the prayer is finished, he looks out over the assembled crowd. Nearly the entire village has turned up, and the church is packed from wall to wall, people standing in the back, on the narrow balcony that wraps around three walls, and even some in the aisles.

"I don't think I see a single face in this room that has not been saddened by this war. We've all held our breath when the mail has come for the past four years. And I know Mr Kittering's hated seeing the postal stamp from the War Department when those letters and telegrams have come into his depot. Delivering heartbreak is a soul-sucking job. And now it's over. But the holes in our community aren't ever going to fill. We're never going to get them back. We won't ever forget these boys...or the young women who went to help and were lost alongside them." He pauses, thinking of what to say next, "We're going to do right by our lost. I've talked to a few people who have skills and time, but we're going to need to pay them- we're going to have a granite memorial in our graveyard. Every name etched on it. A commitment to never forget. If you can help, please do. Even if that's planting a few flowers around the graveyard to make it a little easier for everyone to visit. Those who are coming home will be here in a few days. We'll celebrate that they are home, and we'll let them mourn their losses, too."

Brother Morton offers up a prayer for safe travel for the returning soldiers, a prayer of thanksgiving that the war is over. And then they step down and others come up to talk about the people they have lost. And others, such as Helga, stay quietly mourning in their seats. When all who have spoken wish to, they drag the old wooden chairs from the church rows to the side of the room. Long boards and sawhorses arrive from various sheds and cellars around the village. Baked goods, stews, soups, and vegetables stored from the not-to-distant harvest appear from the village kitchens and grace the communal tables.

The supper is solemn, but also filled with stories of those lost, and from those who are returning. It is not a quiet affair. When the sun starts to set, alcohol appears around the hall. Beer, wine, brandy, even vodka- whatever people have hidden in their cellars or in their kitchens. Someone brings a guitar, another someone an accordion, and a set of bagpipes drones in the corner. They sing. Thomas excuses himself and retreats from the crowd. It is too much, too many voices, and too much of death. He shivers in the late fall air, his shirtsleeves no longer sufficient against the cold. But he can't go home, he has something he is compelled to do. This is the time of year he always saw the change in his wives- the vibrant young women who he brought to Allerdale Hall at the end of the work season, September or October, and saw start to fade after a month or two. Pamela had died early in December. So had Margaret. Enola lasted a little longer into January. His son had died just before Christmas. Shivering, he walks through the graveyard to his sister's plot. He rests his hand on the tombstone made from foundation stone from Allerdale Hall. It was a lovely gesture for Lizzie to save this stone for her. She had reasoned that Lucille felt so bound to the hall that she would be lost without at least a little of it to anchor her, even in death. Rebecca has left a wreath of bay laurel on her grave. She does this for everyone interred in the cemetery- she lays a wreath on their deathday. But it is a kindness he especially appreciates for his sister. There are scattered dried flowers at the base of the headstone, too, flowers Lizzie carefully dried earlier in the season so he could lay them on her grave late in the fall.

All his deaths have come this time of year. His sister. His wives. His son. It is for this reason that he cannot bring himself, even after all this time, to take part in the Christmas festivities beyond the supper at Mr York's house and the gift exchange he hosts. It is a simple gathering, and it reminds him of that first kind invitation when he was a prisoner in the jail.

He leaves Lucille's grave without a word and finds the graves of his wives and son. Their monument is a small exedra with a lamb resting on the back, their names carved in the base. It sits at their heads and he feels a little odd walking across their graves to get to it, but he does, stepping slowly. He still does not feel right sitting on the bench, so he sits in front of it, leaning back against the marker. He is cold, but he can only think of how cold they were in the end. How cold his son was. He kept the child swaddled in blankets, in his own scarf, tucked close, and yet he remembers how cold his little nose was whenever he pressed it close to his face.

He leans an arm against the granite and rests his cheek against it, "I'm so sorry, my friends. This was not what I wanted. But you all knew that. You all knew something was wrong. And you know I am repentant. Bless your souls, dear women. And my little one...I am so sorry I did not know. I have said this so many times, but I still mean it. I love you, child. I wish I had known well enough to keep you and that I had been able to get to know you." He pauses, "And happy birthday."

He is so caught up in his thoughts that he does not hear her approach; a hand rests on his shoulder. He does not need to turn to face his guest to know who crouches beside him. He knows from the hand itself. He reaches up and wraps her chilly fingers in his own.

"Thank you."

Lizzie huddles close, the warmth of her body a welcome relief from the cold. She wraps her arms around him, still holding his hand, and rests her chin against his shoulder.

"I'm so very cold, but I'm not ready..."

She kisses his cheek, "Wait, then. Take time."

"Last year it was snowing on his birthday." He falls silent. It is the one day he allows himself to break during light hours and he cries for everything lost, from his own tortured childhood to the innocence Lucille was never allowed to keep to his son and the women they killed. He feels guilt other times, yes, but he keeps it carefully tucked away, only mentioned late at night when he is bare and vulnerable in Lizzie's bed. Their bed. She continually corrects him on this point.

There is a question Lizzie has kept to herself since 1901. Seventeen years.

"What was his name?" Thomas buries his face in his arm and sobs.

She wonders if, perhaps, she should not have asked, but after a few long, heartbroken minutes, he raises his eyes and turns to her, "Noah. She never used his name. I should have known something was wrong then... The day after she birthed him, she padded her undergarments and had me cinch her tight into her corset. What mother refuses to name her child? I was so blind..."

The lamb serves as the baby's marker, the year of his birth and death inscribed below it, along with the number of days the child survived. But there is space above it. She determines to see a stonemason as soon as she can.

The temperature is falling quickly and Thomas' lips are starting to turn a little blue. Lizzie gently tugs on his arm and signs, with her fingers as legs, that he should stand up. He nods, rises, and then offers her assistance. They do not speak as they return to her cottage in the dark. When they enter, she lights the lamps while he builds a fire in the open fireplace in the middle of the house. It is a glorious thing made of fieldstone, its four sides open, the chimney supported by thick posts at the corners. He sits beside it, watching her pack root vegetables, smoked meet, and onions into a cast iron pot that she then hangs on a hook and swings over the fire.

"I still think you are remarkable, Lizzie. After all this time, you are still my quiet strength."

She draws out a notebook- she has shelves of them in her bedroom, _"I have something for you. I know it has been seventeen years since Allerdale Hall, but there were things I did not or could not sell. Some of them are unpleasant, even horrifying. May I take you to them or bring them to you today?"_

He takes a deep breath, then nods. She leads him into the attic of the little cottage and opens a trunk, drawing out a folded canvas, a lidded drawer, and a box. She places them each in front of him and stops him as he reaches for them, waiting a moment to make sure he is ready. He squeezes her hand, then opens the box. He stares at the cleaver.

"Where did you find this?"

" _In the yard. The man who bought the cellar floor tiles wanted it, too, but I told him no. Your story was not going to be a sideshow. I don't think he was too happy. He offered me an exorbitant sum to sell it. To sell you. I said no."_

"Are the other things just as bad?"

" _Up here, one is worse. Downstairs, no. But these were the things I could not sell nor did I know what else to do with them. Their disposal was for you and you alone."_ He reaches for the drawer and she stops him, _"This is Lucille's trophy drawer. Do you know what is in it?"_ He swallows hard and nods, _"Take a deep breath. You don't have to open it if you don't want to. You can burn it as it is, or bury it."_

He opens the drawer's lid and drops back from his knees when he sees the curls of hair and the dried fingers, landing hard on his heels. He covers his mouth and shakes his head, "Oh god, Lizzie...why did I open it?"

" _Perhaps because you need to know you are repulsed by this, by what was done. Let us send it up to ash."_

"Please. I feel ill."

She pulls the kitchen matches from her apron pocket, _"Then let us take it outside so that we don't accidentally burn down the cottage and light it on fire, drawer and all."_

He points to the canvas, "Is that what I think it is?"

" _The portrait. You asked that I save it."_

"Let's light it on fire, too."

" _And the knife?"_

"I don't know. I can't... I can't keep it here. She killed our mother with it. And while Mother was a terrible person..." He cannot express what he is feeling. Instead, Lizzie kisses his cheek.

" _You don't need to use words. This all represents the darkest secrets in your life- the things you nearly died for."_

"Does anyone else know this is here?"

" _Father knows there are things I have that are from the worst of Allerdale Hall. He does not know what."_

Thomas does not want to touch the drawer or the portrait. He closes lids and stands, leaving everything on the floor. Lizzie stacks the boxes and the portrait and follows him down the stairs. He does not get a coat; he steps out the back door into the bitter wind. There is no snow yet, but it is coming. He crosses to his steam shed- it is small compared to the one behind Nathaniel's house, but it serves their purposes well- to power a generator. He wants to harness the electric light, at least for a few places in town. But the fire box is large and Lizzie places everything in it as well as a shovel of coal . She then retrieves a small jar of kerosene from near the back door and trickles it over everything. She hands it to Thomas and gestures for him to stand back. She closes the door and pitches the lit match through the little slit in the steel and jumps away. Flames shoot out it only a moment later. It burns hot and fast, the old wood crackling, the paints in the portrait colouring the flames.

"You put the cleaver in there, too, didn't you?"

She nods.

"It won't burn away."

She shakes her head and stands with her arms crossed, watching the flames crackle and pop. The water will heat and the steam will rise, the generator ready to work if they will let it. She gestures to it and Thomas checks the machinery.

"We'll have lights tonight, at least for a little while."

He always feels like a sorcerer when he snaps up the the switch to connect the house to the raw electric power generated in the shed. It will be a while before there is a full head of steam, but when there is, the house will flicker to life and, for a little while, they will bask in this magic.

He checks everything one more time and heads back to the house to wait. Lizzie is already by the back door. They return to the fireplace to warm up.

"What else did you bring?"

She takes his hand and leads him to her workshop. Books line the walls and she points a few out to him. Medical texts, herbals. Things befitting of a village witch. And then she takes him to her bedroom and opens the wardrobe. He has not asked about his clothes, and she has let him forget about what he wore so long ago. But she reveals what she has kept. White shirts. Dark trousers. A turquoise coat wearing thin at the seams. A black canvas coat. A black velvet jacket and soft silk vest. A scarf and fingerless gloves. An overcoat and top hat. He stares at each garment as she sets them on the bed. And then she taps the lid of a trunk beside the wardrobe and holds up one finger. They will wait to move on until he is ready.

"I had no idea you'd kept all this..."

" _They were too beautiful to leave behind and I did not know what you might hold fondly and what you would want to symbolically add to the conflagration."_

He puts on the turquoise jacket, "I don't know what I want. Some of this meant a great deal to me when I first acquired it. Others...nothing." He touches the black velvet, "I don't know that I want anything out, but I don't want to burn it, either."

Lizzie carefully packs everything back into her wardrobe. She rests her hand on his sleeve, a question about the turquoise jacket. He brushes the cuff and shakes his head. She will leave him with it. If he changes his mind, the wardrobe has a space for it. She tugs him from the bed and sits down in front of the trunk. He does the same, dreading what else she has kept from Allerdale Hall.

" _This. is not something I want you to be hasty about. But I consider these textiles nothing but material and this is why they have been taken apart, save for one piece. I asked your permission once before I kept them. I will ask again before I sew."_ She opens the trunk and Thomas reaches a hand out to touch the black velvet on the top layer, the lace from its collar detached and folded neatly beside it.

"Lucille's clothing."

Lizzie bows her head.

"Which gowns?"

" _Red. Turquoise. Black. And a cloak too beautiful to disassemble. Black. Billowing sleeves. The gowns are in pieces, ready to be built into something else. But I did not know how you felt about me wearing something of your sister's. She had beautiful things."_

He gently touches the top piece. He did not think anything of hers could effect him still in this way. These things are supposed to fade, to disappear with time and the touch of a dear woman. But he was wrong and he feels both a draw to the textiles and a revulsion to them. He glances to Lizzie, who is very gently brushing the black velvet as though she has never seen something so fine. It dawns on him that she likely hasn't. That hoarding these garments for years is the closest she has ever come to having gowns of silk, taffeta, velvet. There is a longing in her eyes he has so rarely seen over material things.

"Make yourself something beautiful. And wear her cloak, if you can. It is stunning, and it seems fitting of a witch."

" _Are you absolutely certain?"_

He nods, "Yes. You deserve beautiful things, Lizzie. And no matter what she did, these fabrics are beyond beautiful. You will be stunning in them."

" _And if I kiss you in a gown of red silk taffeta, you will not connect it too deeply to her?"_

Thomas takes her hands and draws her close,"No. You will still smell, feel, and taste of my Lizzie. The curve of your hip, the swell of your breasts, the soft skin under your chin that my fingers brush as I lift your face...these things are you and only you. A dress cannot change that."

She is flushed and she writes quickly, _"Go check your generator. I think I need to 'go to bed' sooner, rather than later."_

Thomas laughs, kisses her forehead, and goes to check his system. It is working beautifully. He throws the switch and the house comes to light. The bedroom however, is dim, most of the lighting in the front sitting room and Lizzie's workshop. She sits across the bed, waiting. He crawls up her legs, slipping his hand under her skirts, kissing his way to her mouth. She giggles and he breaks into a wide grin.

The engine runs out of steam before they do, the generator slowing to a halt, the house going black. They do not notice.

 


	25. Endings

It is 25 years to the day when Thomas left Allerdale Hall that Mr York dies. There are no grand rites, no fancy funeral, but a simple internment with words beside the grave from Brother Morton and Rebecca, draped in her greenery. There will be a gathering after Christmas at his home, his friends invited to share their memories. Thomas stays close to Lizzie, his arm around her waist. She is still as a stone. Her father's health faltered and failed quickly, his death only a week after the first signs of trouble. After he is in the ground, Thomas walks Lizzie back to her cottage and tucks her into bed. She turns away from him. He sits on the edge of the bed and rests his hand on her shoulder.

"Lizzie...what can I do for you, love?"

She shakes her head.

"Do you want me to rest beside you?"

Another no.

He sighs, not sure what else to offer, "I love you. Please, if there's anything at all you can think of, do tell me. I'm going to go make some supper. I hope you'll take some." She does not answer, so he leaves the room. He isn't the best cook, and there are moments of blatant terror standing over the stove hoping he hasn't accidentally poisoned the food when he drops something from cupboard too near the pot, but he has at least learned to cook potatoes. He cubes them small and tosses them in butter in the pan, letting them sizzle. He glances at the spice tins. He knows he can't actually poison anyone from the kitchen herbs. Anything that could harm anyone is kept in a locked cupboard in her workshop. She has always been incredibly careful with her witching tools.

He goes out to the henhouse in the yard and retrieves the day's eggs. Only a few in the cold season, but enough for them to eat. He thanks the hens before returning to the house. It is a habit he has learned from her. He finds her sitting on the edge of the open fireplace, teasing the flames to fuller health.

"Lizzie? Is something wrong?"

She shakes her head and sighs, "Everything."

He nods and hangs a kettle in the fire, "Coffee. It will help." He stands beside her, an arm on her shoulder. She rests against his leg, "What do you need from me in the coming days?"

She finds her notebook, " _There will have to be someone to look after the jail. Thaddeus is rubbish at it. It will fall to me. But someone has to be there in the evenings and through the night in case of emergencies."_

"What of Calum? Your father was training him."

" _He isn't ready. Perhaps in a few years."_ "

"I'm not leaving you to it alone. I'll help. Please, Lizzie. Don't shut me out of this. Your father was family to me, too. You, Nathaniel, and he were all I had for how long? I may not grieve the same as you, but...don't think this isn't hard for me, too. I just want to know what I can do to help." He kneels on the floor beside her, his head resting against her side, "I aspire far more to be a York than a Sharpe. Your father was an honourable and kind man."

She strokes his hair, now more grey than black, "Thank you, Thomas. Would you like to be?" She clears her throat, a half-cough she's trying to hide.

"Use your notedbook, love. Please."

"Not for this."

It dawns on him what she has asked, "Are you...speaking of marriage?"

She nods.

He pauses, "I...I'm honoured. Deeply. But...I'm wary of it. You can understand why." He sees her expression shift subtly and quickly adds, "This isn't a 'no'- please don't think it is. But I've had four weddings. The first in a London parish church, another in a register's office in Edinburgh, and another in a fine estate garden in Milan. Then the last in beautiful Boston's courthouse in front of a judge. And I don't know if I can do it again." He gazes up at her, turning so he is on his knees facing her, "Please, forgive me this, Miss York. I love you. I act as your friend and husband in our own home, even though I am only one of those things. And I wish I had an easy answer for you. I want only to give you a 'yes' with absolutely no reservations."

She pulls out her notebook and flips to page past all her conversations where there is an old page pasted beside a letter in her own hand. He recognizes the page pasted in- it is the letter he wrote in case of his death.

He reads the other, " _Miss Elizabeth York and Mr Thomas Sharpe, united in marriage at an indeterminate date in the future by Mrs Rebecca Doyle, witch and Brother Morton, solitary wandering monk. Banns, if possible, in honour of mother's traditions. Location: the village rose gardens when they are in full bloom- June or July? Dress: of her own making. His: yet to be determined. Flowers: Rebecca's fragrant herbs in a crown- no veil, no bouquet. Rings: from the family jewelery box. Attendees: those of our friends and family yet living. Entrance: holding hands, a choice, not someone being given away. Music: guitar, Mal. Witnesses: Father, Richard, Mal, Thad, Nate, Ezra, Victoria, Helga. After, a picnic on the square full of laughter and music._ "

Thomas brushes his fingers over the words, "When did you envision this?"

She takes the notebook from his hands and flips back to the page on which she has been writing, " _Not long after I nearly lost you. I realized then how dear you were to me, even if neither of us were ready to admit it. You see the names of the dead on the list._ "

"It sounds like a beautiful dream. But...it scares me, Lizzie. I'm so sorry...I just...I can't." He drops back from kneeling to sit on his feet, his head hanging, shoulders slumped. She has put her father in the ground and he has failed her. But she doesn't seem to see it that way. She shifts to sit beside him and lifts his chin, peeking under to try to meet his eyes.

"Thomas, please look." He sighs and raises his eyes as she writes, " _Love is more important than a ceremony. I know. I'm asking a lot of you. We don't have to do any of this. But I wanted to show you I've been thinking about marriage for a long time. Years. And I never asked because I knew how difficult it would be. I didn't know Father's death would hurt this much. And I didn't know how much it would make me think about my own life. I want to commit to you under the laws of this nation- and I would consider it an even more precious gift, given what you have been through._

" _If you absolutely cannot, I understand. But please consider it. I will not ask again, not because I do not want to, but because I want you to be the one who makes the decision, not me by pressuring you._ "

He reads it twice, sets her notebook on the hearth, and takes her hands, "I love you. I would be lost without you. I wish-" She kisses him and stops his words. He only ends it when he remembers there are potatoes on the stove and eggs waiting. He pulls away and tells her, "Just one moment. I forgot I was cooking supper." She waits while he scrambles eggs and seasons the potatoes. They eat at the hearth and he pours coffee. He still can't bear to drink tea. They sip slowly, warding off the evening chill cuddled close by the fire.

Lizzie grieves quietly for the loss of her father, wanting very much to fall asleep and wake up to it all having been a nightmare. But she knows it isn't. She starts crying, clutching her mug, unable to hide this heartbreak or the realization that she may never marry Thomas, something that did not bother her nearly so much a few weeks ago.

He slips the mug from her hand and sets it on the hearth, "Come here." He opens his arms and she cuddles against him. He lets her cry, wondering how many of her tears are for her father and how many are for his failure to be her husband. She cries herself to sleep. He carries her to the bed, tucks her in, washes the dishes, and stokes the fire. Then he joins her.

It is a cold night. The wind pushes under windows and doors. He cuddles close to Lizzie, remembering the winds that would shudder through Allerdale Hall and the flares of the fireplace. 25 years he has been away from it, and yet it still haunts him. He squeezes his eyes shut, wraps his arms around Lizzie, and holds tight, hoping the memories disappear quickly. But there are faces in the darkness, some he recognizes, and others that are distorted and covered in red clay. He opens his eyes, horrified, but there is nothing in the dark.

Thomas whispers a prayer to the night, "Please, whatever is listening- don't let my ghosts hurt Lizzie."

As he drifts off to sleep, he swears he can hear Enola's voice whisper, "She is safe, darling Thomas. We watch over you both."

 


	26. Friends and Relations

The months to Christmas pass quickly, but Lizzie's grief burrows deep and pulls her under with it. She tries to maintain the jail, but Thomas finds himself doing most of the daily work while Lizzie manages to cook for the prisoners. He works closely with Calum, learning his strengths and weaknesses, handing him more tasks every day. He is impressed with the young man's management skills. He does not think it will take years for him to take on the work all on his own.

Lizzie doesn't attend the Christmas Eve party with the Doyle's, nor does she hold a gathering on Christmas. She spends the day in bed, curled up with one of her father's sweaters. Thomas tends to her and urges her to eat, but she refuses.

The day of her father's memorial, she returns to his house and watches as Helga greets guests. There are more than they anticipated and soon Malachi suggests they move to the church. Richard, Thaddeus, Rebecca, and Nathaniel help carry food from the house and soon they are set up again. But her father's friends keep coming and the church seating isn't comfortable, the room a bit chilly. Pillows and blankets appear from various households in the village and soon the room is far more cozy.

They they mingle and then they stand at the pulpit and share stories of Mr York's care for each and every one of them. His generosity and kindness are clear. He was a much-loved man, even by many of his former prisoners.

Thomas tries to stay close to Lizzie. She is gracious and warm to those who come to her to tell her little details of how her father changed their lives, but he can also see she is weary and sad. He wishes he could spirit her away to a quiet corner but does not know if that is acceptable at her own father's memorial.

There is a face in the crowd, though, that Thomas does not expect and his presence is so starting that Thomas excuses himself to go meet this unanticipated guest.

"Mr Angel?"

The old man turns, "There's few living who know to call me that name."

"Sir, I apologize if it's the wrong one. I don't know another. Do you remember me?"

"Thomas Sharpe, age 32. Yes, I remember you. How are you faring?"

"Well, thank you."

"Do you have a family? A home? A few creature comforts?"

"Yes, sir. I've been with Miss Lizzie York for years. She and I have a cottage. It is a home I am quite proud to have built for her."

"Miss? She's not your wife?"

"No, sir. Given my history, we haven't been married."

"Interesting."

"Might I ask you a question?"

Mr Angel nods, "Of course."

"How did you come to know Mr York?"

"We were all village jailers- some newer to it than others. I think there were six of us. We did our best to treat the prisoners we held as best we could. But we knew what some of them faced in Carlisle. This was before Mr Hayes, mind you. It wasn't the sort of place you'd like to think of sending a man, and certainly not someplace you'd want a man to breathe his last. A few of us were allowed to watch the hangings- so watch we did. The lack of kindness shown to the condemned disturbed us all. So when the hangman left for less grim work, we put in our names. Except we didn't do it as a single man each, you see. We put in our names as a lot. We'd have a rotation so we could take turns with the work, a few years at a time. And we decided we'd keep in touch so we never had to worry about not having someone to talk to about a particularly disturbing case. Every time we stepped into the role, we took on the name Mr Angel. Didn't matter which one of us placed the noose and pulled the lever, we thought every man should get the chance to be calmed by an Angel in the end. So they were. And here I am. Your Mr Angel."

"Mr York spent time as a...a Mr Angel?"

"Yes."

"And that must be why he was so calm and steady as he walked me down that hall."

"Aye, indeed. He knew who would be on the other side of the door, what you'd face- he'd ushered others across, same as I."

"He never spoke of it."

"None of us usually do. It's something we keep between ourselves. There are a few of us left from that group, and we've taken on a few new young men suited to the work. We may not make much of a difference to the world up here in Carlisle, but we can at least make a difference to the people we're taking out of it. There's a bit of a relief for Mr Hayes to be able to tell a family their loved one was treated gently in the end."

Thomas is unsure how to say what he wants to say and his face clearly shows his conflict, "I...I can attest that it...it makes a difference. My father tried to kill me in my childhood. There was no kindness, only insults and anger. I knew I was worthless from a young age and that death was something that would be deserved no matter how it came. To have someone ready to usher me to it with such incredible patience and kindness was something I had never considered possible. While horrible and terrifying, your soft steady presence was like nothing I had experienced relating to death." He pauses, "None of this was, actually. Mr York's kindness. Lizzie simply accepting what I had done and allowing me to grieve. Rebecca's simple kindness in burying my sister. I celebrated Christmas for the first time 25 years ago in the York house. Helga embraced me into the family without a second thought and she knew the charges against me. At my worst, I was brought into a world where there were truly good people waiting that I had no idea I could be a part of." Another pause, "Sir, thank you. What name shall I call you out here?"

"Hiram Schultz," he extends his hand, "Pleasure to meet you in this world, Mr Sharpe."

Thomas shakes his hand, "And you as well, Mr Schultz."

Someone whistles for attention- Helga, "Aye- Mr Schultz? We need a blessin' on this food. Care to take a moment?"

He turns to Thomas, "Excuse me. We'll talk again later- but I need to take on my other role- rabbi." He pats Thomas' arm as he passes and heads to the table.

Thomas looks for Lizzie. He doesn't see her amongst the assembled and so he wanders to the entryway to see if she is there. He meets Malachi.

"Excuse me, but have you seen Lizzie?"

"She left while you were talking to the old man. Said she needed to take a walk. I think she headed towards the cottage."

"Thank you."

"You best keep an eye on that girl. None of us know if she's inherited any of her mother's madness. We didn't talk about that around her father, but...well, it's a worry a lot of us have had over the years. You don't forget a thing like how we found her."

"I will find Lizzie."

"Good luck. And you'd best do it fast. The skies don't look promising."

Thomas steps out into the grey afternoon. It has started to snow. Faint impressions of footprints cross the churchyard, deviating from the path towards two familiar places. He follows them- there are roses on the graves of his wives, in front of Noah's little lamb, and on Lucille's headstone. He recognizes the roses. They are from her father's memorial supper. He continues to trace her path, taking it out of the churchyard and to their cottage. It is dark inside, save for a dim lantern in the bedroom. He calls her name, hoping to hear the rustle of her skirts as she comes from shadow, but it does not happen. The house is empty. In the low lighting, he almost misses the single sheet of paper left on the bed.

" _Thomas- this has all been too much at once. I'm going back to where everything started a quarter century ago. Don't follow me into the windswept nothing. I will be back before dark. But in case something happens, I love you._ "

He sets down the note and glances out the nearest window. The snow is falling more heavily. Being out beyond the village bounds in this is a way to get lost and freeze. He grabs his hat, scarf, heavy jacket, and a quilt and runs for Mr Kittering's livery.

"I need a horse."

"Mr Sharpe. Hello."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but Lizzie's gone out and the weather's turning for the worse."

"You know, there was a man 25 years ago came bursting in here to hire a horse in weather that started out just like this..."

"Yes. And I think we head to similar destinations. Did Lizzie ride out?"

"I don't know. She wouldn't have talked to me first if she did. She'd have just gone straight to the stables."

Thomas turns, "Then if you can tell me if a horse is missing, I'd be grateful."

"You really think she rode out in this? She's brighter than that."

"She mourns her father, sir, she's not thinking entirely clearly."

They hurry to the stables and Mr Kittering notices a stall door open, "She took Josie. Good horse. One she's well familiar with."

"I wonder how long she's been out."

He looks at the ground outside, "Long enough the snow's covered her tracks."

"That isn't very long with how it's coming down."

He turns to Thomas, "Are you sure about this? You're likely to lose the road and find yourself lost in this mess."

"And Lizzie's liable to do the same and cannot yell for help if she is injured or lost. I won't leave her to this on her own."

Mr Kittering leads out a large black horse, "Well, then I suppose I'd best send you out with Sampson and the small carriage, then. It'll give you both a bit of shelter when you find her, and you can tie Josie up to the side and walk her home."

"Thank you."

Mr Kittering works quickly and Thomas is soon in the driver's seat, ready to brave the snow, "Godspeed, Mr Sharpe. I hope you find her soon. When do we send out a rescue party?"

"Follow the road to Crimson Peak in half hour. I hope I've found her by then, but if not...we'll need all eyes." He rides out, only realizing once he is beyond the village bounds and on a road leading to the clay that the quilt folded beside him is the one she made that first Christmas. One of the first gifts he'd been given that hadn't also brought with it guilt and dread.

 


	27. Missing Pieces

Thomas rides on through the snow as visibility diminishes from an eighth of a mile ahead to just a few yards. He slows, mindful that it is easy to lose the road. He doesn't know how he will recognize what is left of Allerdale Hall when he arrives. Lizzie's deconstruction was, to his knowledge, complete, and he hasn't been back. The only thing that would remain would be the deep pit into the mines. He shudders, thinking of her losing her way and falling into that red clay.

He drives the carriage until he thinks he should be somewhere near the house, somewhere near that huge iron gate, but remembers that it, too, sold. There is little left. He cannot see far in front of him. Out of the snow, he sees what appears to be a path to the left, perhaps even the road up to the house. He cautiously takes it, watching Sampson's steps to make sure he does not falter and that he has not brought them onto treacherous terrain. Ahead, he sees splotches in the snow and knows he has found it. Josie's tracks have brought up the red of the clay. Finally, he has a path to follow. But it soon disappears as the soil heaviest with clay drowns the snow in seeping red.

He parks the carriage under the lonely tree with a stern word to Sampson not to go anywhere. He steps down and feels the ground stick to his shoes as he walks. He stares at where the house should be and sees nothing. Even in the snow, there should at least be some shadow there, but there is not and he is not sure how he feels seeing that it is entirely gone.

"Lizzie? Lizzie? Where are you? Please... I...I need to know you're safe." He walks towards where there should be a house and finds the gaping open clay pit, practically frantic, "Lizzie? Clap for me. Please. Just a noise so I know you're alive." He walks the long distance around the edge, trying to see if she has fallen into the mine. Once he circles back, he wonders if he should find a way to get down into the pit to look for her. It is the only reason he can think that he would not have found her and the thought of her injured or dead in his father's mine horrifies him more than anything else he imagines.

He hears a horse approaching from the path, "Mal? Is that you? I can't find her. I need help. I don't know how to search the pit- did you bring a rope?" No answer. Thomas stares into the hole, desperate and despairing, "If she's hurt in any way, if this house or it's remains have harmed her, consider it my doing. Shoot me out here and leave me to the pit, for it is the justice that is right and quick and true."

The rider dismounts and approaches. He does not turn around, waiting to hear the click of the rifle as it is aimed at his head. Instead he hears the rustle of taffeta. He turns, hoping it is one of the living, not one of the dead.

Lizzie seems to fade into sight as she comes closer through the snow. Thomas' heart leaps and he hurries to her, throwing his arms around her, holding her close as soon as she is in reach. She is cold, her coat forgotten, her dress too thin for the weather, snow sticking to her eyelashes and to the tear streaks on her pink cheeks. He sweeps her up and carries her to the carriage, her horse following them. He settles Lizzie in the seat with the quilt wrapped around her and then goes back to tie Josie's lead to the carriage. Once that is done, he sits beside her and kisses her.

"My god, Lizzie. Why on earth did you come out here? No- don't speak. Wait to tell me until we are by the fire and you are warm, your honeyed tea beside you."

She leans against him and he starts for home; her hands are too cold to write, but she whispers, "Everything is ending, Thomas."

"No, it isn't. I know it feels that way and there is a hole in your heart where he should be, but please...we aren't ending, so it can't be everything." He dreads his next question but asks it anyway, "Are we?"

She shakes her head and starts crying on his shoulder.

"This isn't just about your father, is it?"

She shakes her head.

"You still want to be married, don't you?"

She nods.

"And it is breaking your heart that I don't know how I can."

Another nod.

"I'm so sorry, Lizzie. I love you."

"It's been a quarter of a century since you were last married, Thomas." She coughs. He takes the reigns in one hand so he can put his other arm around her.

"I know. And I know it should be enough distance. But..." He sighs, "I don't know how we can go about this in a way that won't bring back dread, but I am willing to talk to Brother Morton and Rebecca to see if it is possible to make a wedding ceremony that looks nothing like my others. Something honest. But after, if you still permit it, I would take your name instead of you mine. I cannot have another Lady Sharpe."

She sits up and turns his face towards hers, then presses her hand to her heart, over his, and back to hers. He kisses her forehead before returning his eyes to the road.

"Just...please be patient with me. This will be incredibly difficult."

Partway back, they meet Malachi, Roger, Nathaniel, and Thaddeus- nearly the same search party that came for him. He nods to them and slows the carriage.

"Everything alright, Mr Sharpe?" Malachi asks.

"Yes, sir. I found her. She's cold, but she's unhurt. Thank god."

"Good. Rebecca's been to the cottage- got a fire started. Let's get her home to warm up."

Thomas rides onward, the four men his escort. He tries to ignore them, to focus on her and on the task at hand, but something in his instincts tells him to be wary. As soon as they reach the cottage, he lifts her and steps to the ground. He ignores the horses and carries her inside. One of the others will take care of the animals and return the carriage. But Lizzie is his responsibility. He carries her to their bed. Rebecca has had a warmer under the sheets. She slips it out and turns down the blankets while Lizzie kicks off her shoes. He lays her down and tucks her in while Rebecca slips from the room. He sits beside her and kisses her forehead as she sighs into the pillow.

Still bent low, he whispers, "Lizzie, my love. Please rest. I'll take care of you."

Rebecca brings in a tray of hot soup and the honeyed tea, "Here's a bit to warm you from the inside. I'll keep a watch on her, Thomas. Go talk to the boys."

He stands as she places the tray in Lizzie's lap, "But why?"

Rebecca does not answer, making sure that her patient has the steaming mug in her hands before she turns to him, walking with him towards the doorway, "Just do. Answer their questions."

"They still don't trust me. Not after all these years."

"Please. Listen. There is more here than you realize."

"Do you trust me?"

"As much as a village witch ever trusts anyone, yes."

He sighs and glances back to the bed, "Come get me if she needs me. I don't like not being beside her when she isn't well." He leaves the room. Thaddeus is just shaking off his coat after taking the horses to the stables. Malachi, Roger, and Nathaniel have already taken seats around the fire, "Gentlemen. Rebecca says you wish to speak to me."

"That we do," Roger says.

"About?"

"What caused this, Mr Sharpe?" Malachi asks.

He flinches at the accusation in Malachi's tone, "I don't know."

"Come now. She ran off back towards your mansion. Or where it used to be. You can't tell me you didn't have anything to do with why she disappeared."

"I'm sorry. All I have is her note. It isn't anything groundbreaking. I don't know why she chose there." He brings her note to them and they pass it around.

"You don't know why she'd want to 'go back to where everything started'?"

"No, sir, I do not."

"Well, Mr Sharpe, that doesn't make much sense to me. The girl loses her father and runs off to the place where they arrested a murderous pair of siblings? You'll have to explain to me how this connects." Malachi's voice is harsh. Thomas feels the familiar panic he has always felt when someone starts to raise voice or ire against him.

"I'm sorry, I don't have any answers for you."

"You didn't hurt her?"

"Good god, no. I've never lifted a finger against her. I love her."

"Your family doesn't exactly have the best record of not hurting the people they love."

"If you think there was any love in my family, you've greatly mis-characterized us." He clasps his wrists behind his back to hide that his palms sweat and he can no longer keep his hands steady.

"Let me put this plain and simple, Mr Sharpe. Your father had a habit of being a mastermind of patient cruelty with women. Some of them he groomed for years so he could break their hearts the harshest way possible. And I'm not convinced, given that our girl just ran out into the snow towards that damned house of yours, that you didn't do the same thing."

Thomas sits on the hearth, horrified, his face pale, his stomach turning. He can't find words to defend himself. He drops his head into his hands, trembling.

Nathaniel glances between the older men. Malachi's gaze is fixed on Thomas. Roger's too. Thaddeus looks uncomfortable. He meets Nathaniel's eyes. Nathaniel shakes his head- he knows what they are doing to him is wrong. Thaddeus tilts his towards Thomas.

Nathaniel stands and walks to the hearth; he sits and puts a hand on his brother's shoulder, "Look...there's more to this story than you probably know. What do you know about how Lizzie's mother met her end?"

"Mr York told me she tried to kill Lizzie, then eviscerated herself out on the moor." His face is still hidden behind his hands.

"Did he tell you why?"

"He said she was mad." He sighs and looks up, "But I don't know what that means other than there were doctors who thought puncturing her brain would help."

He sighs, "Well, that's part of it. But not everything. Your father- our father- he took a fancy to Miss Magdalene even before she was married to Mr York. That's where I come from. She was a wild one. Madness was in her blood, that's true. And she came over Hadrian's wall for her husband and married him a year after she'd been here. Left me without parents, she did. But that's not the story the men told me. The story's what happened next. See, the baronet, he kept asking after her. Trying to steal her away. Mr York was damned clear to him what he'd do if he ever caught him trying to get into the house. So he didn't try that. But he wanted her bad and so he kept trying to get at her when she was out. They say it fueled her insanity. Mr York, he tried to take care of her, lord rest him. He did everything he could. But Sharpe was persistent. And he didn't like when he found out she was pregnant with Lizzie. She was showing pretty well when he managed to catch her out walking. He dragged her behind Mal's house and thought he'd have his way with her there. She made enough noise to attract Mal, though, and he came out with the rifle aimed and ready to fire. He hesitated when he saw who it was that had her, though, and that gave Mr Sharpe enough time to pull his own pistol and put it to her belly. He wanted her, he didn't care about Lizzie. Mal lowered his rifle and Mr Sharpe left. Now we don't know what happened between then and the first time she tried to kill herself. I don't think he came back. Her husband talked her down and brought her home. She had Lizzie. Rebecca attended. And it wasn't a week before she was on the bridge threatening to jump with the baby in her arms. I think Lizzie was just a few months old when she tried to kill herself again. It wasn't long after that she tried to slit Lizzie's throat and then went out to the moor. We wondered about why that day, but Mr Kittering said there was a letter for her with the Sharpe seal in wax on the envelope. Mr York never told us what was in it. We never asked. I don't even know if he kept it. For all we know, he burned it, or buried it with her. But she tried to kill her daughter and ran towards that house to kill herself after she saw what was in that letter. Mal says he thinks she wanted to show him for the monster he was."

Thomas stares at the floor, horrified, "Oh my god... I didn't think... I mean, I knew he'd had other women, but..."

Nathaniel places a hand on his shoulder, "But what, Tom?"

No one but Nathaniel calls him Tom; the nickname is something to focus on, a soft and kind voice to bring him a little clarity in this mess, "I thought the greatest extent of his cruelty was kept to the house."

"Nah. Our father was a shit to everyone. But those he expected something from, they were the ones he damaged the most. You. Your sis. Your mother. Magdalene."

"Do you think I would hurt Lizzie?" he asks, heartbroken that the question has to be voiced.

"No, I don't. And I don't think the boys do, either. But they knew her mother. I was just a baby; I heard the stories second-hand. But Mal, he went out with Mr York and found her, guts spilled on the ground. Thad and Rebecca took in Lizzie, covered in blood. And Roger dug the hole when they brought her back. So when Lizzie runs off the same way her mother did, the question is, is this her mother's madness? Was there something that happened to make it start in her? She knows the story. Even though her father didn't want her to know, we made sure she had the truth of it when she was old enough to ask."

Thomas sighs, "And given she she loves baronet Sharpe, you have to ask."

Thaddeus speaks, "Now we've got to ask again, too. Mr Sharpe, has anything happened, other than the death of her father, that might have contributed to this running off to- what was it? -'where it all started'- or some-such?"

Thomas thinks, his heart heavy, "She asked a question. And I could not answer as she so dearly yearned." The room is silent except for the crackling of the fire.

"And?" Roger prompts.

"She asked me to marry her. The day we buried her father."

Malachi shakes his head, "Why the hell would that lead to this? What did you tell her?"

"I told her I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"Good god, man, don't you understand? I've been married _four_ _times_ and three of them have ended in death! The fourth nearly so! How can I simply consent to another of something that my sister considered so trivial that she thought it a perfect way to fend off starvation, something so insignificant that wives could be killed and thrown away? Marry a girl, use the money, kill her- 'the perfect plan, the lonely ones will never be missed,' she said. And after that, after watching Pamela die; seeing Margaret wither, being unable to stomach seeing her pass; letting Enola cough her way to death, even while she tried desperately to care for my dying son...my god, you have to ask why? How can I say 'yes' without it calling back all that and what I did to Edith? How can any of you expect it wouldn't?" He only realizes he has raised his voice after he has finished and he feels his heart racing, his breathing quick. He slumps, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't yell. She's resting." He tells himself he's failed her again, interrupting her recovery.

Nathaniel wraps his arm around his brother's shoulder, "No, it's alright. That wasn't a fair question. And we're asking very personal things."

Thomas stands to escape the touch, "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I have to take care of Lizzie. You may continue your inquisition once she is well. I didn't want to tell anyone yet, but I've told her we will try. We will talk to Brother Morton and to Rebecca to see if we can marry without my dread destroying it. It can't. Everything else was a lie and this absolutely _must_ be true. And now you know. Before I wanted you to. When I wanted to just have a secret between she and I, something we could work through and dream about together, just us, as lovers sometimes do." He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, too tired to pretend he isn't emotional, "And don't you all have a memorial to be attending?"

Thaddeus stands, "You're right. We do. Please forgive the intrusion, Mr Sharpe. We just wanted to make sure Lizzie's safe."

"Safe from me."

"More safe from herself." Thaddeus tips his hat, "Rest well. And stay warm." He leaves. Roger follows.

Malachi steps forward, "I'm sorry, son. I was too harsh. It's hard to shake the memory of her mother with her belly slit and that's all I could think of when Gerry told me that's where Lizzie'd gone."

"Then you understand how memories haunt and I am sure you can see how it breaks my heart that you all would question my love for Lizzie. Please. Leave us alone. When she has recovered, perhaps we will speak again."

Malachi leaves; Nathaniel is the only one left, "I'm sorry. The story...it's horrific. It's why we all assumed your lives were hell up in that goddamned house. If this is what he did to a woman he lusted for, someone he had a use for, what would he do to children?"

"You cannot fathom the depths of depravity and violence he visited upon us. He liked to choke me until I passed out, a worthless piece of rubbish, not even human. And my sister...he humiliated her in ways only a man can inflict upon a young girl."

Nathaniel offers his hand, "I hope you'll forgive me. I don't think you've ever hurt Lizzie. I've considered her your missus for years."

"Thank you, Nate." He shakes the offered hand, "But I would like quiet. I need to care for her. We can talk later." Nathaniel tips his hat as he puts on his coat and heads out into the cold.

Once alone, Thomas takes a few deep breaths before walking into the bedroom. Rebecca sits beside Lizzie rubbing her cold feet. The colour is slowly coming back to her toes. Thomas brings a pair of woolen socks to the bed and sits on her other side.

Lizzie pats her chest and touches her ear.

"You heard."

She nods.

"I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head reaches for his hand as Rebecca speaks, "I want to watch her for a little while longer to make sure those feet warm. Her hands are better with the mug to clutch. She ate most of her soup."

"Thank you, Rebecca."

"The men are damned fools. Good intentioned ones, but still."

He sighs, "I'd rather not talk about what just happened. It hurts."

"I know it does. But at least you understand why."

"I do. And I think they should have seen that I am not my father. I hate even wearing his name, but I have no other to take."

Lizzie smiles on the bed, "York," she whispers.

Rebecca pulls back the blanket, "Help her with the socks. Then curl up beside her. It's the best thing- more warmth. We'll talk of weddings when she's feeling better."

He kicks off his shoes and lays beside Lizzie, asking for her to stick one foot in the air for a sock, then the other. She giggles as he playfully slips each on with a little zipping sound. Rebecca tucks them both in and turns out the lamps. She retires to the kitchen. She wants to be nearby to keep a watch on Lizzie. So while she waits, she bakes. Lizzie, though falls asleep cuddled against Thomas and he follows soon after. They will talk in the morning.

 


	28. New

Rebecca does not sleep. She burns sacred herbs in Lizzie's workshop to calm the couple in the bedroom and asks the forces of nature, her gods and goddesses, to let them find rest. Her people were once from Scotland, heathens hidden for centuries from the church, practicing in secret to avoid death. Hadrian's wall separated the family and made them English in region, but not in their hearts. So they witched on.

She bakes, too, a magic of its own, making sure there will be food without work for them in the morning. And then she dozes in the chair when the light is just greying the sky. When it is dawn and the sun streams through the windows, she wakes. She hears movement in the bedroom and creeps to the door, opening it only a crack. They move together, intertwined under the sheets. She closes the door without noise, a smile on her face. She stokes the fire then wraps herself in a heavy shawl and steps out into the snow, her footprints the first in the six inches of accumulation. She walks to her own home, the day brightening as the sun lifts fully over the horizon.

She opens the back door; Thaddeus is at the kitchen table with coffee, "Good morning, Bec. How does your patient fare?"

"She's not my patient." She passes him and pours herself a cup. She usually sits with him at the table in the morning, coffee after breakfast, but she stands at the window instead.

"Bec? What's going on? You're not telling me something."

"Does a witch ever tell everything?"

"Come on, darling. Talk to me."

But she doesn't. She sips her coffee at the window and watches the world wake up.

Thaddeus stands and walks to her, his coffee left behind. He puts a hand on her shoulder, "Please-"

She whirls around and slaps him hard, "No. You stand down, Thaddeus Doyle. I heard every word last night. Every. Single. Word. And it was cruelty at its finest to interrogate him so. I swear, by all the forces of this world and every other, that if you were the architect of this hare-brained scheme, I will take you apart piece by piece."

"Rebecca, please. We had to know if she'd gone mad."

"Not that way. To assume from the start that he'd hurt her, even after all these years... Thad, it's been 25 years since he gained his freedom from Allerdale Hall. A quarter century. He's loved her for nearly all of it, been free for over the past decade...and yet you accused him of such a grievous sin..." She pushes by him and drops into a chair at the table, "How would you be feeling if it were me, out there on the moors that you'd just rescued, and the only friends you'd ever had came in asking such a thing? Really, Thad- did you think this at all through?"

He slowly sits down across from her, "There's a reason Mal did most of the speaking. He'd been worried about Lizzie for years. She's well past the age her mother was when she died, but we just don't know what happened to Magdaline. Was the madness in her blood? Did it come on because of Lord Sharpe? We can't say."

"And were it to come on our Lizzie, what then? Would you cage her? Take a pike to her brain and hope it relieved her without stealing her from her own head? Or would you let her lover care for her with all his heart? He's dealt with madness before and survived her. Not well, mind you, but he's walked that path. And were she mad, he wouldn't be alone in the handling of it. Or he wasn't, until last night. Lord knows if he'll trust us again."

"Are you saying that we shouldn't care?"

"No. I'm saying you should mind your own damned business and let the girl grieve her father. Let him, too. Reg, Lizzie, Nate- their the boy's only blood family. He's lost the only elder he's ever had who didn't treat him cruelly. Who never wanted him to die so they would be rid of a disappointment. What does that do to a man? A child? To grow up that way? And now Reg is gone and Thomas is carrying Lizzie's grief heavy on his shoulders, trying to ignore his own so he can care for her. And there you boys went to add to that burden..."

"I'm sorry. We only were worried for _her_ when we came in last night."

"No, you were worried for _yourselves_."

Thaddeus tips his head, curious to hear her reasoning, "Oh?"

"Aye. Yourselves. You were scared _you_ would endure something horrifying again. You didn't think a whit about what it would mean if she was mad. What it would do to _her_. To her lover. Mal didn't want to see another girl dead. He loves her, you all do. But if she's mad, what are you going to do to stop it? Is breaking the man she loves away from the people who he will depend on to take care of _him_ when he must devote his life to caring for _her_ really thinking of anyone but yourselves?"

Silence. She hears the mice scritching along the floorboards upstairs. She glares at the ceiling. The sound stops. Then she looks back to Thaddeus, waiting.

"My god, Becca...I'm so sorry."

"You're not the only one who needs to be sorry and I'm not the one you need to be telling it to. I'm going back over there in a bit. Not yet, they need their time alone. But soon. You aren't to be knocking on their door today, none of the lot of you. Not even Nate. But after the year starts its close, you need to speak so you're on the right terms when the next one begins." She finishes her coffee and retreats to her work room, to herbs, the cauldron over the fire, and lanterns.

Thaddeus sips his coffee in the sunlight, thinking. He has to talk to Malachi. To Roger. To Nathaniel. They year ends in only a few days. There is work to do.

Back in the cottage, Lizzie sighs against Thomas' chest as he rests over her. She kisses over his heart and he rolls off her, slipping his hand between her legs, fingers sliding gently back. She shoves him and laughs.

"Oh? A bit sensitive, are we?" he teases, kissing her forehead.

She nods and moans as he strokes, fingers easing into her as her legs fall open, welcoming him. Her lips seek his and he happily kisses her mouth, her chin, her neck, nibbling her ears as she gasps, her hand resting on his wrist, guiding his movement, her other fingers buried in his hair. It isn't long before she quivers around his fingers. She presses his hand into her and falls back against the pillow, panting.

"Oh, Lizzie. I love the sounds you make. I love the expressions on your face as we make love. And I cannot yet understand why you chose me."

"Because I love you."

He smiles, "I love you, too, Miss York. And perhaps after we bathe, we can talk of our future."

She fumbles for her notebook and finds it buried under the blankets, _"Are you serious when you say you will consider marriage?"_

"Yes. But please understand this terrifies me. I may need to stop or back away all together for a little while."

" _We will go as slow as you need."_

"Speaking of slow, what time is it? The sun is fairly high, at least for December."

She shrugs. He slips from bed and goes to draw a bath. It is a huge tub, one of the few expensive things they bought with the wealth from Allerdale Hall. They can sit in it together and on this cold morning, that is exactly what they do, washing one another and cuddling under the warm water. After they are dried and dressed, they walk out to the other room and find the breakfast baking Rebecca has left out on their table. There is a note.

" _Lovelies,_

" _I baked. I prayed to the old gods. And I hope this morning you can start to move forward in love. Send for me when you wish to talk of ceremonies. I can also send for Brother Mort. I will take care of you, even if my boys are being unreasonable dunderheaded fools. You can bet your last penny Thad, at the least, will regret the lack of care they had for the both of you last night. Now enjoy your breakfast. And one another. I know you did this morning."_

Thomas laughs a little uncomfortably, "Oh my...she must have still been here when we started."

Lizzie shrugs, " _She is a witch. These things are part of our natural lives. There is no shame attached to sex in our traditions, only sacredness for what it can be to those involved and the vulnerability it requires. She may have stepped in to check on us and seen. But she likely only smiled and shut the door to leave us be."_

"So very different from my growing-up."

" _So very different from the growing-up of most people, I would suppose. But we are a different sort, up here by Hadrian's Wall. Less tamed by the church out here in the wilds of the Lakes._ "

Thomas serves her breakfast, makes coffee, and then sits across the corner from her, their legs woven together under the table. Once they have eaten, she checks the time. It is nearing eleven. They took their time waking up, making love, bathing.

Lizzie sets her notebook on the table, " _So...what do you want to do today?_ "

"I want to know how we will proceed with not only the day, but with our lives. The idea of getting married...it's daunting."

"I know. I love you, Thomas."

He takes her hand, "I know. And for you I will do what I can. But if I cannot, please do not think I love you any less. Only that I cannot ignore the wounds I have caused myself."

" _Or that Lucille caused you."_

"I know."

" _You are safe here. You know that?"_

"Am I, still, given last night?"

" _Yes._ "

"And what if I can't entirely believe that?"

" _Then believe me when I say that no one dares cross the witches of this village- there is a story that your father showed up on Rebecca's door after my mother was dead. The story says he told her women like her needed to be broken on their backs. And she looked him dead in the eye and said men like him best watch the shadows, lest they have knives driven into them while sleeping, for women like her had the ways to do whatever necessary to protect themselves. When Thaddeus tells the tale, it ends there. When Rebecca tells it, and she rarely does, it continues that night, when she appeared by his bedside in the dead of the night, a spirit while her body was yet here in the village, and told him that he was never to come here again, lest she take vengeance for everyone he had ever hurt, his children included. And to hear her tell it, you would think that the reason his horse threw him and trampled him while he was out hunting was because she'd done something to make it happen- horses listen to witches. And she would not bury him in the churchyard. She put up enough of a fuss that he's outside the fence behind the church. The story says your mother called it a 'family plot'- we all called it the unconsecrated place for the man who deserved to be damned."_

"Lucille poisoned the flask he always took with him. It was a rudimentary poison, not what she would learn to blend for tea- it was a small miracle the horse finished the work. He'd never thrown anyone before. She said she had to end him before he killed me. He nearly did, forgetting me out in the fields- I think I was 8. It took days to find me and I was nearly dead. All I remember is cold and then waking to his thundering at me for being so weak. And that doesn't count the times he tried to strangle me or beat me or the cuts and burns..." He rubs his arm unconsciously.

Lizzie places her hand over his; he drops his head when he realizes what he is doing, " _And you're safe from him now. He is dead. You are with me. And we dismantled Allerdale Hall."_

Thomas embraces her and rests his head on her shoulder, "But it's never all the way over, Lizzie. It still haunts. I still have nightmares. Fewer, yes, but they are horrifying. And there are so many scars."

" _I know a tissane that is meant to help with quiet sleep. Would you be willing to try it?"_

"Tissane?"

" _Like a tea, but without any actual tea._ "

"I can't."

" _If it is from your lover, perhaps you can. Do you trust me?"_

"Yes. But this isn't about trust. It's about who hurt me. And how she still hurts me."

" _Would you be willing to try were I to make it? I won't hold you to anything if you can't. But if you need rest, it will give it. And perhaps it will steal some of the power she still has over you._ "

He sits back and takes her hands, "We will see. But first, let's go to Rebecca. One challenge at a time, and the first one is talk of marriage."

She nods and kisses his cheek, a comfort and assurance. They finish their coffee, bundling up against the chilly weather. They follow Rebecca's footsteps to her cottage and knock on the door.

 


	29. Plans

Sitting at Rebecca's kitchen table, Thomas fidgets with the edge of his waistcoat. Lizzie notices and takes his hand, folding his fingers in hers. Rebecca has given them the legal options for marriage. While Lizzie would like to follow her mother's tradition, it was also how he married Margaret and he is deeply uncomfortable with repeating anything of his former marriages. They will ride to Carlisle to pay for the license.

"I have seen Lizzie's daydreams from long ago. I have heard both of you discussing the changes to them. Including the wish not to have an audience. But you will still need witnesses."

Lizzie writes, " _Aunt Helga is far too sick to serve- she made an appearance at the memorial, but it is the first time I have seen her out of bed in weeks. She is likely to die this winter. Would you be willing to serve in that role?"_

"Of course. I would be honoured. And as I cannot officially be your priest, I will sign it for the crown. And your second?"

Thomas thinks a moment, "Nathaniel. He is our brother. It seems only right to include him."

"Even with his participation in last night?"

"He was the kindest amongst them, Rebecca. And we have little else in the way of friends or family left."

"I understand. But they were damned cruel and I don't wish this day to be harder for you than it already will be."

He turns to Lizzie, "Thoughts?"

" _I think Nathaniel is a good choice. He and I have been so very close over the years. And from what I heard, he does trust you. He wanted you to understand why the others were asking what they did."_

"Then we will talk to him in a few days. I don't want to travel in this weather, though. The road to Carlisle is likely difficult."

" _We are in no rush. I will send for silk to make my dress and then I will talk to my aunt so she knows our good news before she dies. And hopefully she will live to see me a bride. If not, she will rest easy knowing I will be cared for so well."_ Lizzie leans against Thomas and he kisses her cheek.

Rebecca watches them, smiling, "You are a lovely couple. I will talk to Brother Mort. We will make you a ceremony like none other, something simple that suits."

"He will consent to marry us? My sister did try to kill him."

"Aye, and he has worried about you ever since. Don't fret about Mort. We will talk. And you will be fine. Just decide on your place, your clothes, and we will be there ready." Rebecca lets them stay at her kitchen table, daydreaming, for the better part of the day. She makes lunch, and then supper, and when Lizzie decides that she will wear blue, she brings a box from the other room and begins to make silk flowers from scraps, adding them to those she already has tucked in a drawer wrapped in cotton. Lizzie does not want to wait until the flowers bloom.

After supper, Thaddeus returns to find them at his table, "Ah. Just the people I need to see."

Thomas draws his arms protectively around Lizzie, "Oh?"

"I've spent all afternoon talking to the boys. Rog. Mal. Nathaniel. We were a band of damned fools last night. Rude, inconsiderate, and hurtful fools. Becca here set me straight this morning. We weren't afraid for her. We were only thinking of ourselves. And she's right. We didn't look past the end of our noses. So I'm sorry for my part in it. Your brother's given us all a tongue lashing we won't soon forget. I hope you'll forgive me."

Thomas takes in a long breath and slowly lets it out, "In time. But you broke something last night. Especially Mal. I thought you trusted me. I thought you knew me for who I was, not for who my father was. I can't forget that. I've spent plenty of nights worrying about the same, hating that I carry his name. Hating that I see his mannerisms in the way I cut bread and even the odd way I sometimes hold a fork- little manners I picked up and some I learned out of terror. And you confirmed the worst fears I have with your accusation that perhaps I would hurt Lizzie because I am his son."

Thaddeus nods, "You've every right to be angry. Furious, in fact. I wouldn't put it past you to never want a thing to do with us."

Lizzie pushes her notebook forward; she's been writing, " _Thaddeus Doyle, you know so much better than what I heard of you last night. I understand that Mal was scared I would be a madwoman like my mother. But it deeply offends me that you do not think Thomas can care for me, that you think I would not myself feel it creeping on and make it known. And that you would seek to protect me from the man who rode into that storm to find me, who has been the steady presence beside me through my father's death and remembrance...who has learned to care for me through coughing fits and long dark nights contemplating my own mortality...that was not something I can easily overlook. Thomas has proven his honour time and time again. He built my home. He turned his skills with steam to power this village and bring warmth in the dark of winter. He cared for my father in his dying days without complaint. And he took over the work of the jail when I could not. How can you even accuse him of being like the elder Lord Sharpe?"_

Thaddeus sits, "Lizzie, it was fear, pure and simple. You ran off-"

"My father is dead! Yesterday was too much..." she coughs a few times, trying to hold it back, and Thomas slips his hand on her back. Rebecca pours hot water and grabs the honey from the larder, placing the steaming mug in front of Lizzie while she still works to control the cough.

"Lizzie, love. It has been a long road and yesterday ripped the scab from the wound you had only just started to heal. I don't think they considered what the memorial would do to you."

"Honestly, we didn't," Thaddeus remarks, "Mal only thought of your mother. And he convinced us to do the same. Except for Nathaniel. Boy's got a better head on his shoulders than the lot of us."

She sips her honeyed water and sighs, leaning against Thomas, writing, " _I hate not being able to speak on my own. I'm so tired of only being a part of things in writing. Of not being able to properly express myself. Rage. Sadness. Love. And it makes me sad that I may not be able to even vow to be yours with my own voice._ " She shows this note only to him, then adds, " _And I so do want to swear like the devil's own handmaiden at Thad, Mal, and Rog. It loses so much in the writing._ "

He pulls her close and kisses her forehead without saying a word, resting his cheek against her hair. She rests into him.

Thomas takes a moment of contentment; Rebecca silently sweeping away teacups to give them their time before Thomas speaks, voice gentle, to Lizzie, "I think I'd best get you home, my love. It's getting dark, and you really ought not be out in the cold. You'll wind up ill." She nods, a bit sleepy, and lets him stand and help her up, her notebook tucked safely back in her clothing as she drapes her winter coat over her shoulders. "You'll excuse us. And Rebecca, thank you, for your help today. It was most appreciated."

"Of course. Any time, my friends."

Thomas bundles up and they venture out into the early grey night, back to the house and the steam shed, where Thomas stokes up a fire so they will have light and the heat from the radiators as they cook supper together, eat together, and curl under the blankets.

At the now nearly empty table, Thaddeus taps on his mug while Rebecca tidies the kitchen, "I meant it, Becca. We really weren't thinking. And we were wrong."

"And you had the courage to tell them so yourself. I'm grateful you found it."

"Had to. You wouldn't have let me come home if I didn't. What were they here for all day, anyway? I thought you'd have that girl on bedrest."

"It's none of your business, Thaddeus Doyle. And I told you she's not my patient."

He laughs, "You're right, it's not. See here, I'd better get to bed. I'm taking a shift at the jail tomorrow, right and early. Calum's doing some fine work, but he still needs a hand now and again. I'll see you when you come up?"

She nods and retreats to her workshop. Thomas needs peace and she has herbs and prayers she believes might help.

In the cottage, Lizzie puts water over the fire and goes to her workshop, gathering herbs from the jars and tins in the shelves. She drops them on the workbench, an accident of tired hands. Thomas slips in and offers help, righting the tipped containers. He pulls down her mortar and pestle. She measures and chooses leaves, adding to it while he crushes. She checks the mixture and adds a pinch of various things. Then he hands her a little cotton drawstring bag and gives him a little scoop. She holds up two fingers. He puts two scoops in the bag and she hands him a cobalt blue glass jar for the rest. She leaves for the kitchen. There are two mugs on the table when he gets there. One is full of honey. The other waits. She takes his hand and guides him to put the teabag in the empty cup. Then she takes the kettle off the fire and pours water in the teapot. She pushes it towards him and then comes to stand beside him.

He stares at the teapot, "Lizzie..."

She takes his hand and rests it against the china. He hesitates, pulling away, but she lays her hand over his and keeps it there a moment before picking up the teapot with her other hand and pouring clear hot water over the herbs and into her honey. She sets the teapot aside and swirls the teabag, transferring it to her cup, letting the water turn an olive green before bringing it back to his cup, dripping honey. She dips the teabag and his water changes as well. She places the teabag on a saucer and hands him his cup.

He does not take it. Not until she picks up his hand and and rests the teacup in it, her own hands around his.

"Smell it."

"I know it is different. But..."

"Plants can heal as well as they can harm." She brings his cup to her lips and sips before lifting it to his own. He takes a few deep breaths and then sips, his eyes squeezed closed. She sets the cup on the table and slips in front of him. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, "My dear, sweet, brave Thomas." He snuggles against her, face buried in her hair.

He takes a few moments to calm and then straightens just enough that he can meet her eyes, "Not so brave, my love. I fear tea."

She kisses him again and then whispers, "Bravery is doing while afraid." She leans against the table, sitting on its edge, and picks up his cup, "Please?" He takes it and she gets her own. She touches the edge of her teacup to his, a tiny clink, before sipping her own honeyed drink. She smiles, letting the chamomile, lavender, honey, and other herbs soothe her throat. He hesitates, then takes another sip. They stand like this, close together, teacups in hand, slowly sipping, until Thomas has drained his cup. She leaves the dishes on the table and takes him to bed.

 


	30. Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Lizzie tells Helga of her news and earns a smile from her aunt, the first she has seen in some months. But it is soon met with a sadness and the bequeathing of a trunk that Lizzie is not to open until Helga is dead. She does not have to wait long. Her aunt dies in her sleep that night. As her only living relation, Lizzie arranges for the funeral and burial. It is small, just the few village men who knew her best, Rebecca, Nathaniel, Thomas, and herself. There are no friends from afar or condolences sent from high posts of government. Just a silent graveyard on a drizzling grey day.

Thomas keeps close to Lizzie throughout, his hand often resting between her shoulders or in the small of her back. She handles this grief with silence and numbness. In bed the night after Helga's memorial and burial, Thomas massages Lizzie's back while she cries, easing tension from her muscles. And then he finishes and kisses her neck. She turns onto her back and finds his lips, her cheeks damp with tears.

He wipes her face and eases himself over her, "I want to know what you're feeling, Lizzie. What you are thinking. Gift me a few words."

"I'm tired, Thomas."

"Tired in body, heart, or head?" He kisses cheek.

"All."

"Oh, Lizzie...I'm so sorry. This has been a difficult winter. What can I do for you tonight?"

She shakes her head and gently pushes him. He takes the hint and rolls off her. She curls against his chest, tucking her legs around his.

"May I make love to you, Lizzie York? Gentle, slow, and patient?"

She nods and he pulls her leg up to his hip. She closes her eyes and helps him enter her. Their movements stay small; she is tucked close to his chest, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The rhythm calms her and she lets her thoughts go, fully present in this intensely intimate moment. They rarely climax together, but this time they do and she falls asleep still pressed to his chest shortly after. Thomas gently withdraws and shifts to a more comfortable position beside her before joining her in a deep, dreamless sleep.

It is March by the time Lizzie thinks about the trunk. She has kept herself busy with sewing, her blue silk from Carlisle, delivered in mid February. Not only blue silk, but fine black velvet scavenged from Lucille's gown. She has lived though so many different fashions and periods, but her dress is firmly planted in the long elegant lines of the earliest years of the century, an off the shoulder piece with a bodice made to go over the new corset she has ordered. She knows it is over a decade out of date and clothes are now more loose, relaxed, and draping, but she loves the shape of this time and so she has built her gown from it.

They have decided that their wedding will take place in Carlisle, Nathaniel, Rebecca, and Brother Morton travelling with them. The monk has connections to a church there, and they will let him use their space without charge. So she stitches and dreams of a beautiful sunny spring day with Rebecca's silk flowers in her bouquet, Thomas by her side.

She has also been writing vows, practising what she wants over and over again in a battered old notebook, whispering the words to herself late at night after he is asleep. Thomas has bought her a slim volume bound in dark blue leather, their names pressed in silver on the front. Thomas and Lizzie York. It sits in a box with her slippers and the shawl she is sure will upset Thomas. It was her mother's, made of tartan cloth. Lizzie knows his second wife wore tartan cloth to their Edinburgh wedding. But it is one of the only things she has of her mother's, tucked in her cradle when she was inconsolable after her death. She doesn't know when to talk to him about it, though, so instead, she simply takes it from her box and sets it on the foot of the bed while she works on stitching lace in place with tiny delicate threads, lace she found in Helga's estate.

Thomas walks in to tell her he has cooked supper, "Lizzie, I've made a bit of a stew. Potato leek and a few other things I found in the cupboards. Would you care for a break?"

She nods and he turns to leave, but his eye catches on the shawl and he steps back into the room, walking to the bed, "Lizzie...what is this?"

She wraps it around her shoulders.

"I understand it's a shawl. I meant more than that." He sits on the bed beside her and hands her a notebook.

" _It belonged to my mother and her mother before her. It is one of the finest weaves of tartan I've ever seen and the only thing of hers I have that I can take with me to be wed. I'd like to wear it. It matches the dress quite nicely._ "

"That it does."

" _You look thoughtful. Lost in it, actually. Speak._ "

"My second wife wore a similar cloth."

" _But not the same. This means a lot to me, Thomas. I won't do it if it will make things too difficult for you._ " She hesitates writing her last sentence and hands the notebook to him, crestfallen. She doesn't bother to hide that it will disappoint her not to be able to.

Thomas reads and sets the notebook aside, "Come here." She doesn't. He slides closer to her, "It is a beautiful shawl. And I have asked so much of you throughout this. I haven't left much room for your own dreams." She has gone back to stitching the lace, her concentration allowing her to avoid looking at him while she works, "Please meet my gaze." She does and he realizes she's holding back tears, "My sweet, darling Lizzie...I didn't know it meant quite this much." He smiles and puts an arm around her shoulder, "Wear it. It will be stunning with the gown."

" _Really? You won't flee the wedding when you see your dear Lizzie, now nearly 50, beside you in plaid?_ "

"No. I will not. I will remember that it _is_ my dear Lizzie beside me, no other woman and I love her dearly- every single bit of her, including this."

She sets her sewing aside and smiles, leaning against him, her arms around his waist. He kisses her temple and then asks, "So, my darling, would you care to come to supper? I made soup. And I managed not to make too much of an ungodly mess doing it."

She laughs and nods. He offers her his hand and they head to the kitchen table.

After supper, they return to the bedroom. Thomas reads beside Lizzie as she sews lace onto her dress. It is almost finished. When her hands are stiff from sewing all day and she can take no more, she carefully tucks her project away and comes back to the bed. As she walks, she trips over the edge of a trunk. She stops and stares at it.

Thomas looks up from his book, "What are you looking at, love?"

She points to the trunk.

"Is that the one from your aunt?"

She nods.

"Do you want to look into it?"

Another nod. Thomas sets down his book while she kneels on the floor. He joins her and waits. She hesitates before opening the hasp and lifting the lid. It smells of cedar inside. Everything is folded neatly. She lifts out the first layer. A christening gown. Small boots. Little infant dresses. Below that, a wedding dress that has never been worn and the long delicate veil made to match. Wedding shoes in white satin. And a jewellery box. She lifts it and opens it to find a few faded tintypes. One is of Helga, her father, and Victoria. Another shows Helga, her father, Helga with Victoria in her arms a few years old, and a woman with wild hair pinned up in a messy bun beside her with a newborn in her arms. Her eyes are tired and a little sad.

Lizzie stares at the picture, "My mother."

Thomas rests his chin on her shoulder, peering over to see the picture, "She was beautiful. Just like her daughter."

"I don't remember her."

Thomas sets the notebook on her lap, "Please."

Lizzie nods and picks up her pencil, " _I don't remember her at all. Not even her madness. Nor her voice. There is one smell I associate with her, but I don't know if that is because she wore it or no. But I seem to remember honeysuckle and heather._ "

"You were so very small when she died. I am surprised you remember anything at all of her."

" _As am I. But it always comes back. I once asked Father about it. He wasn't sure._ "

"He looks proud of his family in this picture."

" _And proud of Helga in the other. I miss her already._ "

"I know. She was a lively woman. And one of the first people I spoke to who knew of my crimes and thought little of them. It made a big impression to have her fold me into the family on Christmas without reservations."

She sets the photographs aside and looks into the rest of the box, carefully lifting the cotton cloth that separated its contents from the tintypes, "Oh...oh my..."

Thomas stares at the glittering pieces, "Those are her wedding jewellery."

Lizzie lifts out the necklace, pearl and marcasite that would sit close to the neck, a pendent dangling from in which a pearl suspends in a ring set with stones, elaborate metalwork making it look rimmed in lace. Long dangling earrings match, as does a bracelet. There are hairpins tipped in marcasite and pearls, and Victoria and Ezra's rings, engraved with their names. She sets them back in the box.

Thomas takes the necklace from her hands and gently places it around her neck, "Your aunt wanted you to have these. Might I suggest you wear them on our own wedding day?"

Lizzie brushes her fingertips over the pearls and nods as he pushes back her hair and holds the earring up to her ears, "You're going to leave me speechless when I see you first on our wedding day. You know that, do you not?"

She blushes and nods, putting pencil to paper as Thomas gently sets the earrings and bracelet aside, " _Yes, I will. And you would I, had I speech to give. What will you be wearing? Not your velvet suit from Allerdale Hall. It has far too many memories attached to it, and so few of them are good._ "

"Nathaniel recommended a tailor in Carlisle. I've sent measurements up to have a suit made. Velvet, still, yes, but in the more modern cut. A blue contrasting vest to match your silk. I stole a swatch from your scraps pile. A crisp white shirt. And I have requested it be held until our arrival. The new fashion is for a gentleman to cut his hair, but that is not something I will consider. I like my locks this length."

She smiles and tousles his curls, "I do, too."

"I should probably tell you that I also wrote to a jeweller in Carlisle recommended by the tailor. I stole your little gold ring and traced it's interior and exterior for a size. and I measured my own with a paper band."

She picks up her notebook, " _You've had rings made?_ "

"Yes, love. I have. Nothing too ostentatious, but a precious jewel for the woman who has been the shining gem in my life seems appropriate."

She blushes, " _Oh stop, Thomas. You're such a lovely flirt._ "

"I speak only truth." She carefully packs the photographs back in the box and tucks it in the trunk. She unfolds the wedding dress and brushes her fingers over the pearls.

"Helga spent hours on this." She folds it back into the trunk picks up the veil. There is a wide comb at the top for pinning it over up-done hair set in the same marcasite and pearls of the rest of the jewellery, "Keep this out." She coughs. Thomas gathers the gems and places them on her folded shawl, the veil beside, before helping her up.

He wraps his arms around her waist and kisses her, "Are you nearly ready, love? Shall we travel to Carlisle on the next perfect day?"

She points to her notebook and he hands it to her, " _Let me finish the dress, dear Thomas. I've worked this hard on it, you simply must let me wear it, even if you insist that it not be on me for long after._ "

He laughs, "Of course, dear girl. But until then, I will be allowing the softness of silk and the sight of glittering stones at your neck be enough to fuel my fantasies late into the night."

She sighs and kisses his chin, gently sucking at the soft skin under his jaw. He shudders and she grins, teasing him to come for her as she nips at his ear and backs toward the bed.

 


	31. Bright Spring Day

A few days later, on a bright, warm Monday, her dress is finished. Excited, she sends for Rebecca and Nathaniel, handing them each a note they read together.

" _Send for the priest- we've got a wedding to have- let us ride today!_ "

Nathaniel laughs and grabs her around the waist, lifting her and spinning her around, "Lizzie, my dear, it sounds like a fine day for a wedding! Is Thomas ready?"

He walks in from the yard, "Am I ready for what? I've been working on the steam engines all morning."

"Your lovely bride-to-be says we're riding for Carlisle today."

Thomas drops the towel on which he was drying his hands and runs to Lizzie, grinning. He scoops her up and swings her in a circle as she giggles, lowering her into a kiss.

"I take it that's a yes. We'd better send for Brother Mort, Rebecca."

"I know where he is. We'll get him on the way."

They ride for Carlisle starting mid-day. They ride all day, the open carriage full of laughter and jokes, a picnic supper eaten on the road. Once they arrive in Carlisle very late at night, Mr Hayes greets them and leads them to a hotel he knows is both very nice and has open rooms. Early the next morning, Thomas goes with Nathaniel to fit his suit and returns to the hotel with it in a large box. Then he takes Lizzie out for her ring. He has her close her eyes while the jeweller fits it. She giggles, giddy, biting her lip in anticipation of the surprise. It fits beautifully and they leave the shop with a box.

That afternoon at 3pm, Nathaniel and Thomas dress and leave their hotel early to meet Brother Morton at the church. Rebecca dresses Lizzie, pinning up her hair with marcasite and pearls, a few curls left to frame her face, the comb of her veil slipped into her braided crown. The dress fits her perfectly, the velvet front panel extending from the floor to the centre pane of the bodice, splitting to frame the wide neckline. that stretches just over the outermost edge of her shoulders. She has beaded the front with stars, metal beads and marcasite, silver thread creating delicate bursts from each little pinpoint of light. The delicate white lace made by her aunt drapes off her arms, around her waist, and at her hem. Blue silk trails behind her. Rebecca lays the necklace against her chest and clasps it in the back while Lizzie slips in the earrings and fastens the bracelet. She tugs on short lace fingerless gloves. Rebecca, in her long black dress, flowers in her hair, hands her the bouquet and her blue notebook. Lizzie slips on her silk shoes, drapes her mother's shawl on her shoulders, and picks up the train of her dress. She stands in front of the long mirror and stares at herself.

Rebecca stands beside her, her smile as broad as it can be, "My darling Lizzie...you are a beautiful woman. I'm so incredibly proud to have watched you grow up."

"I wish Father was here."

"He's watching you from the great afar, girl, you can bet your last ha'penny. Now. Your soon to be husband's waiting at the church. Shall we join him?"

Lizzie nods, takes a deep breath, and steps out the door. It isn't a long walk, but it she is nervous and her grand gown attracts attention as Rebecca keeps her moving down the street.

Nathaniel greets them at the church door, "My god, Liz. You're stunning." He kisses her cheek. "Come on. Thomas' waiting behind the door on the left. You're going to come in on the right. Just like we talked about. Meet at the centre aisle after Rebecca and I call for you. We'll take our places, give you two time to stare at each other. Then come on down to the Brother and we'll get you married." She nods, nervous, and he walks her to her door while Rebecca goes to talk to Thomas. Nathaniel rests his hands on her shoulders, "I'm incredibly proud of you, Liz. For giving him a chance from the start. For believing his story when others weren't so gracious. And for standing by him through everything. You're the strongest woman I know. I'm so blessed to be your brother." He kisses her forehead and steps through the door.

What she doesn't know is that ten minutes before, he'd told Thomas how proud he was to call him brother, for his patience with Lizzie, for his acceptance of her as a whole and beautiful person, even without her voice, and for his steadfast care since his return to the village. And lastly, he had told Thomas how proud he was to stand by a man who had seen all he had seen, done all he had done, and was still willing to be married one last time because Lizzie had her heart set on it, despite his own fears.

She hears Rebecca call, "All hail, sun, moon, skies above, earth below, the wind at our backs and the waters around our world of water. Hail the fire that births us and consumes us, the fire that drives, the fire that ends."

Nathaniel's voice comes next, "Brother Morton, we herald Lizzie York and Thomas Sharpe, brother, sister, family, friends., in their wish to be wed." Lizzie opens the door. Across from her, Thomas does the same. She smiles and steps into the sanctuary.

Thomas' jaw drops when he sees his soon-to-be-wife. He steps forward to meet her, the velvet of his jacket crisp against blue silk vest that perfectly matches her gown. She reaches the aisle a moment ahead of him and he stops at the edge of the pews to stare. She'd kept her beadwork and embroidery hidden from him. He has seen spectacular gowns, but nothing like what she has made. That she has made it has him in nearly as much awe as how immensely he loves her and how much a queen she looks standing before him, marcasite and silver thread glittering from head to toe. He takes a deep breath and walks the last few steps.

He takes her in his arms, careful not to tug on her veil, "Have I found a goddess incarnate? My love, you are divine."

She blushes and laughs silently, kissing his cheek, "As are you."

He clears his throat, "Oh. Um. Thank you." She brushes his cheek with the back of her hand. She loves the little smile creases at the corners of his mouth and eyes, the sure signs that life with her has brought him joy enough to reverse the years without it that had started to crease his face when they met.

"We should probably start walking."

She nods, kisses the corner of his lips, and turns to take his arm. They start down the aisle, their footsteps the only sound in the empty church. But it is not a lonely empty. There is a warmth to the setting and an intimacy to being here in this holy place with so few other people.

They reach the front and Brother Morton greets them, "My friends, welcome. This is a joyous day indeed. We begin by asking your witnesses if there is any legal reason why you two should not be wed, and-" he pauses half a second, looking between Nathaniel and Rebecca as they shake their heads, "-hearing absolutely nothing, I ask the same of you. If there is any reason you should not be wed under the laws of this nation, confess it now."

Lizzie shakes her head, smiling, and Thomas answers, "No, Brother. We know of no reason."

"Good! Then we shall keep this simple. Rebecca would like to ask a blessing upon you both."

She steps forward and takes their hands, "My dear friends. It lifts my heart to see you two taking this step. It brings great joy, knowing that you have found one another. It brings great pride to know how far you have both come and what you have both endured growing your love for one another. And it brings great hope to see what you have in your future, knowing what you have built together already. May you never want for anything necessary. May you always have people who love you to walk this path alongside you. May your love grow stronger with every passing day, and may this marriage last into the next world. You are both so blessed. May all that is bright in this world continue to illuminate the truth and beauty of your lives." She drops their hands and opens her arms, "Come, darlings." She hugs them both, "I am so proud of you both." She steps back to her spot beside Brother Morton.

"Thank you, Rebecca. Now, according to the laws of this land, I must ask if you are here of your own free will, without coercion. Lizzie?"

She whispers, "Yes."

"Thomas?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lovely. Do you have the rings?" Nathaniel hands Thomas the box and he takes them from it, passing the box back to Nathaniel and handing the rings to the monk, "Beautiful. You both have likely heard the poetics that the ring is a circle, made of something precious, a path that never ends. And likely, you've heard marriage compared to that. But that is not the only thing a ring means. In the old days, women only wore them, a sign that she was claimed, owned, bought and paid for in gold. But the Great War changed that. Men wore rings into the trenches as a reminder that though they were in hell, someone waited at home. There was still love in this world, even in bleak times. And that is the message I want to send to you both. Thomas, you have seen dark days. Difficult days none of us can truly fathom. And yet you have still blossomed under the care of love. May this ring always remind you that there is always hope, no matter what haunts, no matter how hard your past is to bear. Lizzie has been beside you and beside you she will faithfully stay. And Lizzie, you have endured hardships most girls at your tender age did not think could happen to them. As a result, you have seen the base character of so many men. Yet here you are, binding yourself to one of that sex. Your heart may have been guarded, but it was still open to the goodness in others. And your kindness and keen eye for who to trust has brought you to marrying your best friend. And so that is what I want to remind you- that hearts that seek love will find it." Rebecca brings a tiny vial of water from her pocket, "Water from Kildare. The holy well of Saint Bridget, but older yet, of Bride, the goddess of hearth and home and marriage itself. It may seem odd to have a monk speak of this, but there is power in old sacred places. Please outstretch your hands, palms up." They do, and he places Lizzie's ring in Thomas' hand, Thomas' in Lizzie's.

Rebecca sprinkles a few drops of Kildare water over each ring, "May she hold your love and your home close to her heart." She pockets the little bottle and takes Lizzie's bouquet.

Brother Morton continues, "Now, we will exchange rings. But not with the same words in the Book of Common Prayer. Thomas, please repeat after me. I, Thomas Sharpe-"

"I, Thomas Sharpe-"

"joyfully pledge my heart, loyalty, and hand-"

"joyfully pledge my heart, loyalty, and hand-"

"-to you, Lizzie, so help me god."

"-to you, Lizzie, so help me god." Brother Morton nods and Thomas slips the ring on her finger. Lapis lazuli, a smooth stone in the centre, framed by two clusters of marcasite.

He turns to Lizzie, "And you, after me. Take your time."

He repeats the same pledge and Lizzie repeats, slowly, carefully, in a voice hardly over a whisper. She slips the gold band, inset with the same lapis lazuli, on Thomas' hand.

"Are you both ready to say your vows?"

Thomas nods and takes both of Lizzie's hands, "May I be the first?"

She nods, tears already in her eyes.

"My beloved Miss Elizabeth York. I have never found someone so forgiving and kind. I should have horrified you from the start, but you looked past everything I had been and only to what I could become. So this is my vow to you. I will always remember what a great gift you have given me and seek to return such kindness and love from the moment we wake each day to when we fall asleep tangled in one another late at night. I can never repay something so vast, but I will ever dream with you and I will do whatever I can to make those dreams come true. I will stay by you, through sickness and health, caring for you as best I know how and seeking help when I cannot do it alone. And most of all, my lady, I pledge you this heart, body, mind, and soul, that you have brought back from the dead and damnation. Every day is owed to you, and so I joyfully gift you everything I am."

There are tears streaming down Lizzie's cheeks; Rebecca hands her a handkerchief and she wipes them, collecting herself as she opens the book and turns it so he can read as she speaks, her broken voice as clear as she can make it in her strong whisper, "Dearest Thomas. I cannot say much. But I love you. And with you, I am whole.. Even this." She pats her throat, "I vow to be yours in good times and in bad. In darkness and light. And no matter what ghosts haunt your memories. I will ease your heart, hold your hand when you are lost in memory, carry your burdens when they are too much." She coughs and he raises a hand to her cheek, "I vow to be your wife, your witch, your lover, fire and ice, whatever this love asks. For you, I speak." He glances at the page. She has said everything written.

"You've never said so much to me before."

"I've been practising. Late. Pushing." She clears her throat, holding back the next cough.

"Rest, love."

She presses her cheek into his palm, eyes closed.

Brother Morton gives them a moment before continuing, "These vows exchanged, these rings blessed, you have sealed your covenant to one another. By the powers granted to me by the church and crown, I declare you Mrs and Mr York. Please, share your first kiss as husband and wife."

Thomas brings her face to his and whispers, "My god, I love you, Lizzie York," before his lips meet hers.

She smiles, "We did it." and giggles, her heart light.

"We did."

His arm around her waist, her hand on his shoulder, she turns to gesture for Nathaniel, Rebecca, and even Brother Morton, to come into their embrace. They hug the monk, the witch, and their brother.

Thomas says, "Thank you. You three...we wouldn't be where we are without you each."

Rebecca nods, "Aye, perhaps. I'm just so deeply honoured you asked us all here for such an incredible moment. Congratulations, loves. You're a mister and missus now."

Thomas can't help himself- he laughs, joy overflowing. Nathaniel links arms with him, Rebecca with Lizzie, dragging Brother Morton along with her, and they walk down the aisle laughing, crying, smiling. And then they are on the bright street, the spring day a celebration itself. They eat at the hotel in the grand dining room that night and return to their rooms full and happy.

Thomas and Lizzie, though, do not sleep quickly. He slowly strips her of her gown, her veil, her undergarments, as she does the same, removing his suit piece by piece, mouths and fingers finding exposed skin a little at a time, teasing moans and sighs from parted, busy lips. When he lays her down, tongue trailing up the inside of her leg, she still wears her jewellery, a goddess adorned by her acolyte, worshipped with mouth and fingers until she begs for him to come inside her and stay. He bends over her, kissing mouth, breasts, the soft skin under her chin, the sweet sensitive spot just below her ear, until he can no longer focus, bringing himself to climax as she gasps for him, clenching her legs around him, his hands holding hers above her head. She presses against him, holding onto the sensation and the little overwhelming pulse between her legs. He rolls her onto him and she settles against his chest, still enjoying the feeling of him resting within her. She falls asleep with her jewels still on. He carefully unclasps the necklace and removes her earrings and bracelet, placing them beneath her pillow so they can find them in the morning. But it is far too nice to have her this way their first night as Mr and Mrs York and moving to put them on the dressing table seems an entirely unnecessary interruption.

 


	32. Settling

They ride back to the village across the next day, arriving late at night. But Thomas and Lizzie do not return to a darkened and chilly house. There is a fire in the fireplace, a hot meal on the stove, and a vase ready on the table for the silk flowers Lizzie has carried all day. They hang their wedding clothes in the wardrobe and bathe before coming back out to the dining room. There is a knock on the door.

Thomas answers, "Hello?"

Malachi nods, "Excuse me, but the boys and I would like to serve your supper."

Surprised, he steps aside to let Malachi pass, followed by Roger and Thaddeus, "Oh? This was you?"

"Aye, it was," Thaddeus answers, "Mal came to us yesterday and said it would be a right damned shame if a pair of newlyweds came back to their beloved home to find it cold and dark and they had to cook. So here's our gift to you."

Roger places steaming bowls of stew on the table, "Congratulations to you both." He sets silverware on the table and pulls out the chairs for each of the Yorks. They wash what dishes they can before saying their goodbyes.

Thaddeus pats Thomas' shoulder, "You're a good man, Thomas. May your years together be long. Liz, darling, you may be the best woman this world has ever known." He steps out.

Roger shakes Thomas' hand, "Enjoy yourselves, friends. And congratulations."

He is out the door before Malachi steps over to the table, "I'm right sorry for what we did to you folks. It's obvious you both are very happy together. And we had no right to interfere in that."

Thomas stands and extends his hand, "Thank you, Mal. I think we can move forward from here." They shake hands and Malachi leaves. Thomas sits again and reaches across the table for Lizzie's hand, his thumb resting over her ring, "Do you like it? I thought the lapis matched your dress. And the marcasite...I won't be able to see it without thinking of how stunning those jewels were against your skin last night."

She nods and touches her chest, then stands, leans across the table to brush his, and sits to touch hers again.

"Heartspeak. Yes, dear Lizzie. It is." They finish their supper quietly and retreat to the bedroom for quiet. Undressed under the covers, they cuddle together, too tired to move.

"I realized something last night. It was the first time I have had sex on my wedding night. And while we have had many wonderful nights together, there was something deeply special about sharing that with you."

"I know. Thank you."

"Even though you have figured out a little of how to use your voice, please still be careful."

She nods.

"Thank you for what?"

"For marrying me. For last night. For you," she whispers.

He smiles and kisses her, "So what is our next adventure, Mrs York? Shall we travel? Invent something for the village? Build something?"

She shakes her head and draws a notebook from under the pillow, resting it against his side as she writes, " _I am turning 48 this year. You are eleven years older. I want a child. I am too old to bear one, but there are children like Nathaniel and Ezra who have no families of their own. Might we become that to them?_ "

Thomas strokes her hair and nods, "Yes. But we will have to think about how we will talk about my past. I can't just tell every child that I was a part of the murder of three women and let an infant die in my arms, nor can I keep it secret."

" _There are children in the village left with no one after the Great War. Children who have known of you their whole lives._ "

"Of course. We will talk to Rebecca in the morning. She will know what to do."

Lizzie nuzzles against Thomas' chest, happy, a smile on her face, "Thank you. Goodnight, Mr York." She falls asleep.. He is giddy, thinking of his new name. It makes it hard to fall asleep, but he is tired, and soon he does.

 


	33. Epilogue

Lizzie and Thomas York go on to take in children and teenagers orphaned by the Great War, ended nearly ten years prior. Their quiet cottage becomes a haven for young people seeking to learn different skills and crafts and there are always small children clambering onto Thomas' lap, infants in his arms. A few of their children aspire to be witches and Lizzie is thrilled that the line of witches will not end with her.

When the Second World War begins, Thomas is in his seventies, Lizzie her sixties, and many of their children are called to war. A few answer the summons and she cries for them late into the nights in Thomas' arms. Others go to work the great industries for the war effort and even more of them go underground, their tiny village and others like it places where the War Department is least likely to look for conscientious objectors and draft dodgers. Still, a few young men are picked up every week and added to the service. Lizzie grieves for the loss of innocence in each of her many children.

Thomas dies shortly after the war. He is in bed with Lizzie by his side, the children he has called his own moving between the crowded and quiet living room and the sanctuary of the bedroom, their own children coming in periodically to check on Grandfather Thomas. Lizzie holds his hand as he falls silent, his breath rattling.

He opens his eyes and meets hers, "Lizzie? Where's Noah?"

She tries to keep from crying as she whispers, "With Enola. She's kept him safe."

"Oh, thank goodness. I thought Lucille had him for a moment. Do you think he's missed me?"

"Likely. But she probably tells him stories so the waiting isn't so bad."

He smiles, "Good. I like that. I'll miss you, Lizzie. I'll tell him all about you so he knows who you are when you join us."

She kisses his forehead, "I'll miss you, too. But I'll be alright. Please, if you need to go, do."

"One final embrace?"

She nods and bends low to hug him. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her in to kiss her lips. She stays close, her ear beside his mouth, as he rests back on the pillow and sighs.

"Goodbye, Lizzie York. I love you." He closes his eyes and stops breathing. She feels for a pulse. It is faint and fades while her fingers try to reach it until she can no longer find it.

She takes his hand and squeezes, "Goodbye, Thomas York. I love you, too." She waits a few moments, letting everything settle and feel final, before she slips his wedding ring from his finger. They agreed on this well in advance- he will not be buried with it so she can carry something of him with her through the end of her life. She stands and walks to the living room. All eyes are on her as she opens the door, "He's gone."

She leaves the door open and returns to her spot beside the bed, slipping his ring on a long gold chain and draping it around her neck as the children and grandchildren come in.

His memorial is well attended. Many of the young men wear their dress uniforms. Rebecca, now nearly a century old and almost blind, lays rosemary in his coffin and pins a sprig on Lizzie as well. Her voice is strong as she speaks words over his coffin. They bury him in the churchyard on the other side of the excedra for his wives and son. Everyone tells stories in the church after he is in the ground. Rebecca keeps an eye on Lizzie.

After it is over, after all the mourners have shaken Lizzie's hand or hugged her, she walks out to the graveyard and places all the flowers on his grave, over the excedra, over the graves of his wives and his son. She takes a few over to Lucille's plot and bedecks the stone in nature's beauty. Lizzie returns to sit at Thomas' feet a few moments before walking home.

Nathaniel is waiting at her door, "How are you holding up, Liz?"

She pulls out her notebook, " _Fair enough. I thought I'd lost him once years ago- in 1902. God, has it really been so long? Come in for coffee or tea. It's chilly tonight._ "

"Of course." The door clicks closed behind her and he follows her as she gets water over the fire, "You did it, Liz. You found someone to love. You gave him all your heart. You saw him through all life's ups and downs. And you saw him off to the next one. What's even more remarkable is who you did it _for_. Liz, you're a saint. Were you Catholic and not a witch, I'd nominate you to the Vatican myself."

" _It wasn't hard to love him, Nate. We had our challenges, but I never asked myself if it was worth it or not. It always was._ "

"He came a long way with you. I'm incredibly happy to have called him my friend. My brother. And very proud of you both."

"Thank you."

"Do you want me to stay a while?"

" _Only if you want to. I plan on sleeping for a few days._ "

"Fair enough. How's this. I'll stay around to cook and do the housework so you can just rest. I miss my brother, too. Thomas was a wonderful person But you loved him differently, so now it's my turn to take care of you."

She nods and retreats to her workroom. There are things she has not yet done, things Rebecca taught her were for settling souls and easing the hearts of the living. She stokes the fires beneath her cauldron and opens the tap from the hot water lines from Thomas radiators. The steam engine still powers the little house and likely always will, at least until Lizzie leaves the world. She draws off just enough water for her work and sets a steel basin, a shallow circular boat, on the surface of the water. Into it, she drops springs and handfuls of fragrant dried herbs and sprinkles a small amount of the valuable frankincense she has been saving for years. With a long match, she takes from the fire below and lights the contents of the basin. She whispers things over the smoke, prayers and incantations for rest and for healing. And then she takes two very old tea tins from the shelf. She draws a pinch of each from the containers and throws them in the fire, careful to let the smoke filter up to the ceiling.

"Leave him be, Lucille. He has found peace. Find your own."

There is a shimmer in the corner of the room and something dark inches out of the shadows, "He is dead?"

"Yes."

"You are not supposed to be able to speak."

"Carefully."

"You are a witch."

"Yes."

The dark, skeletal figure in midnight lace steps forward, "Send me home."

"Allerdale or afterlife?"

"End me. He is dead. He is at rest and gone from this plane. He has no unfinished business. And I am alone."

Lizzie studies her and then pulls herbs from the clusters on her ceiling, speaking snatches of Gaelic and whispering incantations. She powders them and adds them to the water of Kildare in a clay cup. And then she places the cup in the fire in the basin and waits. She puts a pinch of the deadly tea in the water and removes the cup once it is hot. She passes it to Lucille.

"Drink."

"I know that smell."

"You do. And you are already dead."

"What will this do to me?"

"Afterlife or end. You choose."

The skeletal woman takes the cup and drinks it in one long draught. She stares at her hands and sighs. The cup clatters to the floor as she vanishes. It has split, two clean halves. She picks them up and sets them in the herbs burning in the basin, then steps out to the other room.

"You alright, Liz? I thought I heard someone else."

" _You did. Witch things. But it is settled. Thomas is at peace. He will stay rested, waiting, with his son. And I will join him when my years come to a close. His sister won't be bothering him. She's made her choice._ " She shows him the notebook.

"Ah. And what might that be?"

" _If I read the signs right, she's broken from him and ended herself. I don't know, though. A clay mug is such an imprecise divination method. Either way, my love's life is over. But there are so many things to be curious about. Perhaps I'll travel. Find where Ezra and Victoria were buried. See the battlefields of these past two wars to lay flowers on the places where my friends and children fell. Visit the great cities. Maybe I will even seek out Edith in her bright world of opportunity across the ocean. I don't know. But he would not want me to come to a stand-still because he has gone._ "

"If you go, can I come with you?"

" _Of course. We'll always come back home when we need to find roots. Visit the children. I hope one of them wants to keep Thomas' house. I don't want it to rot when I am gone._ "

"I think Cosette has said a few times that she loves this place. And she's got an aptitude for the work you do. Seems right decent at it. You'd know better, of course, but I think she'd be an excellent village witch."

"She would." Lizzie sets aside her notebook, "I'm tired. Please, be at home." She retreats to their bed, so empty since his death. But she cannot close her eyes without him there. Putting him in the earth made it seem so much more real than the days before. So she goes to the closet, pulls out one of his old shirts, pinpricked with little burn marks from the firebox, and places it over her pillow. She closes her eyes and can almost hear his heartbeat.

She hums a little to herself. The tune she played for him on her piano. Its tempo falls with his heartbeat- she'd tweaked it a little after she had fallen asleep at his chest enough that the rhythm was second nature to her. She never told him, but he seemed to know that it had changed for him. She falls asleep to it and hears it in her dreams, but it is not she who plays it Thomas steps from the shadows and they dance in the vast open hall to her music, to his heartbeat.

As the dream fades, he kisses her, "Be brave, Lizzie. I am watching over you. We all are. Go. Live. I will see you in a few decades." There are others waving from the shadows, Victoria, Helga, Ezra, her children taken by war, and a woman with an infant standing beside her father. Other faces she cannot make out. The dream fades, Thomas the last to vanish.

She wakes in the morning to the sound of breakfast sizzling on the stove and the birds singing outside. Sunlight streams into her windows. She stands, stretches, and greets Nathaniel at the breakfast table with strong coffee before she goes to her workroom to check on the herbs. They have burned out, the clay fractured again. She pulls the basin from the cauldron and counts the pieces. A cluster of three. A small fragment in the middle. And two pieces from the other half, fallen to opposite sides. She sets the basin on her bench. Three wives. A little one. And a brother and sister fallen in opposite directions. She returns to breakfast.

"Morning, Lizzie. Coffee?"

She nods.

"Good, good. No doubt you can see I've started breakfast. Be done in a bit. How are you feeling?"

She looks out the window at the bright new day and smiles, "Like having an adventure."

Nathaniel laughs, "I like the sound of that. After we eat, though. Can't go adventuring on an empty stomach."

She sits at the table and they sip coffee while she sketches a crude map on butcher paper. They dream of where they might go, places they might see, and how they might get there. Lizzie and Thomas' children are spread throughout the world and they note who lives where and who has died where. Once they have eaten, they move from dreams to plans. Lizzie dresses. She puts the chain around her neck on which hangs Thomas' wedding ring.

Back at the table, Nathaniel looks up from the map when she returns, "So. How do we decide where to start?"

She removes the necklace, pulling the ring off it. She spins it on the map.

"Ah. We let Thomas decide."

She smiles as the ring clatters down over France. She lifts it and looks at the names on the map.

"I know that area. We fought there- Somme. It's where we lost Ez."

She nods, "Let's visit him."

"OK. I have the papers that say where he is. Your dad left them to me. He was our next of kin."

She takes his hand and nods, understanding this will be difficult. He squeezes it and she does back.

"Thanks, Liz."

She puts the ring back on the chain, clasping it back around her neck, "And we'll take Thomas with us, just like this."

"Well, if he's going to be our travel guide, I suppose we'd be remiss to leave him behind, wouldn't we?"

She laughs and nods. Within the week, they are travelling to France, Thomas' ring around her neck. She writes letters to him, an entire journal of words for Thomas that she keeps with her at all times. To Lizzie York, she is carrying him with her, ever her companion, as she and Nathaniel see the world.

Years later, after she has buried Nathaniel behind the excedra next to Thomas, after there are no more of her elders left living, and she is nearing 90, she goes to her own rest, her journal at her chest, his first declaration of love pasted in the front page, their wedding rings and home passed to Cosette, their daughter, the next village witch.

She buries her mother beside Thomas at the back of the excedra with rosemary in her coffin, a spring pinned to each of her many siblings' clothes.

Late that night, in the shadows of the cottage, she sees her parents' figures dancing, a little baby held between them. If she listens closely, she can hear the child laughing as they kiss. She smiles and returns to reading her book in bed, letting them stay until they fade. They won't be back, not unless they need to tell her something. They are happy and at peace.

 


End file.
